


Perfectly Adequate

by Attic_Nights



Series: Perfectly Adequate [1]
Category: Psych (TV 2006)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Crack, First Time, Fluff, M/M, Romantic Comedy, Shawn has issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:48:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 24,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24160834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Attic_Nights/pseuds/Attic_Nights
Summary: Lassiter wants a child. To sire it, he’s decided Shawn’s adequate.
Relationships: Carlton Lassiter/Shawn Spencer
Series: Perfectly Adequate [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1832296
Comments: 102
Kudos: 211





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is based off a romcom trailer I once saw and barely remember, and a prompt from the 2015 Psych Kink Meme. Yeah, it's been sitting on my hard drive for that long! Finally got around to fleshing it out.
> 
> Original Prompt: a complex, well-developed Omegaverse with Omega!Lassie. I'm an Anthropology geek: I want traditions, different bonds, cultural differences. Protective Shawn highly reccomended. Not at all against Mpreg.

There were many things that Shawn might expect to hear while on a date with Lassie. Indeed, in the same way he counted hats, there were many contingencies Shawn planned for, imagined, and/or dismissed. Like for instance, Lassiter _might_ have feasibly said:

‘ _Spencer this is not a date why would you think so.’_

Or even:

‘ _We’re here because I have a two for one voucher and you’re paying.’_

The latter was admittedly less realistic, since Lassie was the sort of omega to go dutch, just to prove he wasn’t having any of your _darn-tooting alpha baloney_. Though cheap, Lassie didn’t owe anyone anything.

But on a scale ranging from Lassie admitting he sorta liked guns, to ‘ _I have a pet unicorn and I want to name it Guster’_ , Shawn could safely say _this_ was unconsidered and thus beyond the realm of even lilac-wearing unicorns toting AK-47s.

“Spencer,” Lassiter had said gruffly. “I want a child and you’re going to father it.”

Boom.

Well, at least Shawn wasn’t left wondering if this candlelit dinner at _Mario’s_ was a date. Clearly, it’s not. Then again, this could still be some whacky Lassiter-approved courtship. Shawn shook his head, realizing he was still slightly foggy on that whole date aspect. Foggy enough to be one of those full foggy fall days, with obscured skies and hot chocolates and trees you didn’t see until you’d already spilled your pineapple smoothie down your new yellow shirt. Perturbed, Shawn glanced about the elegant restaurant, taking in its dimly lit patrons, its fluid wait staff, and the soft, steady hum of ambient conversation.

Shawn picked up the bread stick he’d dropped and gave it a nonchalant nibble. Lassiter waited, fingers steepled.

“Is this a date?” Shawn asked, gesturing towards the single red rose sprouting from center of their table because this was an easier question to pose than, ‘ _What’s the phone number for the nearest psychiatric hospital?’_

“What date? Oh, you mean this?” Lassiter’s eyes narrowed but his posture remained otherwise relaxed. “Spencer. I just asked you a question.”

“More like a statement really. A proper question would be, ‘How was your day?’ or ‘What’s your favorite color?’ It’s blue today by the way, blue like the dancing aliens in the music video for _I’m Blue_.”

Lassiter listened to him and tilted his head in acknowledgement. Though his usual work clothes hung from his lanky frame, his collar was popped, the requisite ugly tie absent, and his sternbush charmingly reaching for air. As Shawn took in the details of his detective a waiter appeared, withdrawing a notepad from the pocket of her cinched black apron. They ordered quickly and were left alone.

“Shall I take this to mean you’re not opposed?”

“I’m not opposed to many things. I’m not opposed to condensed milk sandwiches or even pineapple on pizza. But. Well, I’m surprised you’re not.”

To his surprise, Lassiter rolled his eyes and huffed. “Oh come on. You’re handsome, gregarious, and not stupid, I guess. I’m awkward, weird and introverted. Between us, we might actually balance out something normal.”

Shawn tensed, imagining Henry. “You want our baby to be a perfect crime solver?”

“Of course not. Not necessarily. That’s up for them to decide.”

Shawn tore off a piece from the breadbasket. Jules was right. The bread was good here. Soft, crusty, fluffy… if he was an inch tall he’d frolic in this bread and no one, not even Gus could convince him to leave.

Shawn swallowed. “I’m not much of an alpha.”

“I’m not much of an omega,” came the retort.

Lassiter, with his stern appearance and stern suits, could pass at first glance for an alpha, or, at the very least, a beta. Shawn, with his chipper disposition and comfortable bright clothes was often mistaken for a beta and, on some embarrassing occasions, an omega. They didn’t fit neatly inside society’s preconceptions of gender – but then again not everyone did.

“I have ADHD.”

Lassie nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful. “That’s good to know, but still better than Dobson’s diabetes. Genetic predisposition is tricky.”

Somehow, that hurt. “You considered Dobson for this? No.” His eyes widened. “You made a list. Please tell me I’m not number 4. Or 7.”

Lassiter shifted, his eyes dropping to the table and his cheeks reddening, embarrassed. “you’rethefirstpersoniasked.”

“What was that?” asked Shawn, hearing him perfectly.

Lassie glared. “I have done, uh, adequate research.”

Lassiter’s research… That meant – no! Shawn couldn’t help that his eyebrows decided rocket upwards to orbit the moon of his head.

In response, Lassiter’s eyes went wide and he lowered what he must have thought was a reassuring hand onto the tablecloth. “Don’t worry, you’re clean. Medically.”

“Postponing the celebratory party for a mo’ – where did you get my special jello from?”

Lassiter drank his lemonade and said nothing. He didn’t look embarrassed, so that meant saliva.

“Not… the peanut butter!”

Lassiter shot him a satisfied smirk. “I’ve decided you’re adequate.”

Shawn studied the omega, who’d turned to watch the swinging kitchen door. Waitstaff oiled through with food-laden hands. A muscle twitched in Lassiter’s jaw, belying his nerves. Hugging his jacket to his midsection, Shawn lowered his voice. “Have you considered sperm donation?”

“That’s what I want you to do, Spencer.”

“No, --”

Lassiter sighed. For the first time that evening, Shawn saw the detective’s gruff façade crack. Thus revealed, a downtrodden, weary man worried a demoralized trigger finger over his cloth napkin. “They won’t allow single parents. Equitable Parenting Act of 1998 my ass. The waiting list is seven years long.”

“You’ve been on it, three years?”

“How did… never mind.” Lassiter rolled his eyes. “Four.” Ever since his separation, then. “It may not look it, Spencer, but I’m getting Old.”

He spat out old with a capital O. Shawn felt old some days, too. Headaches more frequent, feet aching in shoes, back stiff, and the occasional grey hair peeking out from his unmentionables.

He paused, watching his pizza float down in front of him. Gooey cheesy goodness pulled as he grabbed a slice from the wheel of savory pizza heaven, and he used the crust to gesture at Lassiter. “It can’t be just that. Marjorie from accounts got hers through last Friday and she can’t have been on the list for more than five years.”

Lassiter scratched the back of his head, and flushed. “It’s not just that,” he acknowledged, poking around at his linguine. “I’m in a ‘dangerous’ occupation. I found out I’m never going to be approved because I am prepared to die at any moment.”

“Do they have a point?”

“I’m not giving up something I love just so I can have something to love.”

“…have you considered a puppy?”

“Shawn,” he barked.

He nibbled at his pizza, thinking about his own childhood. Single parent, cop. Teachers not knowing what to do with him. At least he’d had Gus.

“How much would you want me to be a father? Playdates? Babysitting? Early childhood kidnapping training? I don’t have a car but Henry’s trunk should still do fine.”

Lassiter choked a little on his linguine. He drank some water and eyed Shawn critically. “Hadn’t considered someone like you’d want to take on any responsibility.” He drummed his hand on the table. “As much or little as you want. Not too much though! The kid will still be mine.”

“Gus would be his godfather. I’m sorry – third grade pacts made with cheerios and a garden hose must be upheld. Otherwise, where will we be?”

“That’s not a bad idea.” Lassiter looked thoughtful. “He is marginally more responsible. I was already considering O’Hara as godmother.”

Shawn smiled, like he often did when Lassiter thought of others. “She would like that.”

“She’s capable.”

“She’s your best friend.”

Now Lassiter was smiling. “That’s what I said, wasn’t it?”

Shawn thought for a while.

“I’m not sure if I’m not opposed.”

“Oh, of course. You’ll need to think it through.” Lassiter rubbed at the back of his neck, a slight flush coloring the skin there. “My heat’s in three weeks. You have until then.”

The waiter came then with the check. Halfway to Lassiter she stopped, her eyes fixing on his government-issued green bracelet. As a civil servant he was required by law to wear his designation, on and off duty. Green for omegas, blue for betas, red for alphas. For their protection, argued the republicans. For their oppression, countered the democrats. The practice dated back to the Mayflower, but back then, it was only omegas, and all omegas, designated with a collar of golden wood, soft metals, or pale leather. As it was, the waiter changed her course and the bill floated down to Shawn’s side of the table.

Especially considering the conversation they’d just had, as alpha, he should pay. Shawn swallowed, surprised, when the omega snatched the check and paid the bill instead. Reeling, Shawn wondered when became his father: seeing genders instead of people. Perturbed, he made a mental note to check his wardrobe for Hawaiian shirts, knee-high socks and bucket hats.

Lassiter made as if to get up and Shawn hurriedly donned his jacket, awkwardly fitting his arms through the sleeves. He paused, right arm stuck, as Lassiter cleared his throat.

“And Spencer?” He growled, leaning across the table. “Don’t tell anyone about this. Not Guster, not O’Hara, and especially not your father.”

Shawn laughed shrilly. “Don’t want anyone to know you _want_ to be screwed by your favorite psychic detective?”

“No.” He frowned and lowered his voice. “But if this doesn’t work… No one can find out I’m a failure. I will shove a grenade down your throat. Got it?”

* * *

Grenade threat or not, Shawn _really_ wanted to tell someone. This was a lifechanging decision. He was terrible at those! The next day at the Psych office, Gus sniffed him.

“Why do you smell like Mario’s bread?”

“Dude, how could you possibly know that.”

“They use their pizza oven for baking. The high temperature flavor development is unmistakable, Shawn. Unmistakable.”

“I may have been at Mario’s last night. Where were you? In bed?”

“Yes, I was. Because I like my beauty sleep. Why didn’t you tell me you had a date?”

“That depends on your definition of date. Was it a date? Was it a dinner with Sidney Poitier? Some things we will never know. I also ate your tapioca pudding.”

Gus’ jaw dropped and he stormed to the fridge. “Shawn!”

Shawn thought about Lassiter. How vulnerable and scared he looked when he threatened to kill Shawn with a grenade. He really must want a kid. He sighed. Lassiter had, for once, overestimated his abilities. He couldn’t make this decision alone.

Mind made up, he grabbed his bike keys and let Gus, shrieking about tapioca, chase him out of the Psych office.

* * *

“You should ask Gus.”

Lassiter turned around slowly. “Spencer. Later. Now.”

“That makes no sense. How can I be both later and now? Did I leave my tardis around?”

Lassiter ignored him, having elected to turn to McNab. “Interview the neighbors. Call for backup if anything happens.”

McNab nodded, then looked confused. “Are you worried about me, Detective Lassiter?”

Lassiter shoved the file at McNab and stormed to the evidence lockers. Shawn followed him, whistling.

“Wow, getting clucky, Lassie?”

Lassiter shoved him hard against the wall of the evidence room. With a coordinated foot, he kicked the door shut, leaving them alone. Shawn flushed, feeling the long hard lines of the detective pressed against him. Lassiter’s nose flared.

“You’re not getting turned on by this,” he growled.

“Uh, yeah. A little,” Shawn admitted easily. “You should see what happens if you get the handcuffs out.”

Lassiter pulled back, eyes dark. Frowning, he checked the room and the door. “I will shoot you. Repeatedly, Spencer. What were you thinking?”

Shawn unpeeled himself from the wall. “That Sigourney Weaver is a national treasure?” Lassiter stared at him.

“Fine. Look, Gus is a much better choice than me. He’s smart, responsible, attractive, and has a 90210k.”

Lassiter pinched the bridge of his nose. “First of all. It’s a 401k. Second of all. You’re telling me _no_ , because you think Gus is better?” Shawn nodded. “This is _my choice._ Not yours. _You_ are my choice.”

Shawn didn’t know what to say to that. Lassiter narrowed his eyes. “I thought you were more respectful of omegan choices. Now I see you’re just as bad as the next alpha.”

“I will always respect your choices, Carlton.” Lassiter’s eyes went wide but Shawn didn’t let him savor the privilege of being called by his first name. “I just reserve the right to call you out if it’s a stupid decision.”

“Spencer-“

“I have never made an adult decision in my life. I can’t even make this one without wanting to run for help. How could I actually –“

Lassiter slapped his hand over his mouth. Shawn licked it, surprised. Lassiter removed the hand and wiped with on his jacket with a grimace. When Lassiter looked up, Shawn was amazed to see his face was pink.

“You’re my choice, okay? I can’t imagine… doing it… with anyone else but you. You see so much of me. You know about every little stupid thing I wanted kept hidden. I don’t want anyone else to see me like that.”

“You chose me because you’re a private person? Lassie, I’m honored to be in a select group of one.”

“I had a list, Spencer.”

“But I’m the best?”

Lassiter grit his teeth.

“Okay. But I still need to discuss this decision with someone.”

Lassiter sighed. “Guster only. On pain of death.”

“That’s what I’m talking about!” He slapped Lassiter on the shoulder on his way out. Lassiter halted him. Something conflicted passed over the detective's normally taciturn face and he let Shawn go.

* * *

Gus was pleased when Shawn returned with replacement pudding and bonus tacos. He grinned, sniffing from his desk. “Bonus fish tacos?”

"Apology knows no other flavor."

“You know that’s right.” Gus froze halfway to the prize. “You smell like Lassiter, Shawn.”

“Do I?” He sniffed his hand. “You know my smell’s been shot since eighth grade.”

“I warned you mentos and coke doesn’t mix. _Why_ do you smell like Lassiter?”

Shawn waited until Gus took his first mouthful. “He wants me to 'father his child'."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gus tries to deal with Shawn, Shawn tries to deal with himself, Lassiter is baffling and Juliet's the only one keeping sane.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure how many chapters this will be. It's grown into a monster. It's... finished? But they keep adding to it. They've got inside and have taken over. Send help.

“No. No. No. No.” Gus stopped in his pacing to glare at Shawn. “I’m dead. This is hell.”

“No, but you would be Marlon Brando.”

“Jor-El?”

“Superman’s father? Don’t be the corner of a chip packet. _Godfather_.”

“I _know_ I’d be the godfather, Shawn. Cheerios and garden hoses are legally binding agreements, _Shawn_.”

“Should I do Lassiter then?”

Gus made a face like a fish out of water.

“Come on, buddy. I can’t make this decision alone.”

“No. Uh uh.” Gus grabbed his keys, pudding and taco. “This is your decision.”

“Would I at least have your blessing? Gus? Gus?”

* * *

Gus ignored his phone for the next three hours. Which was fair, probably. He had dumped it on him, apology fish tacos or no apology fish tacos. But he couldn’t sit here at the office. Too hyped up, Shawn took to the streets and found himself sitting on a park bench, watching kids play. He was a similar age to the other parents, so he didn’t stand out too much. He wondered, briefly, why his subconscious was so literal of late. Still, the sun was warm, the birds bright and the ice-cream van was bound to roll around soon.

His phone buzzed.

“Judd Nelson.”

“Shawn?” Juliet’s voice sounded tired. Background noise – keyboard, she must be at her desk.

“Reports bringing you down? You came to the right number. Stay on the line for Easy Shawn Listening. Press three for static, or press five for uncomfortable silence.”

“I – yes, oh.” She sighed and lowered her voice. “What did you do to Carlton?”

“What do you mean? Be specific, there’s a lot I do And a lot I didn’t do. For instance, I have no idea who swapped his stationary for glitter pens.”

“I don’t think he was ever mad at that.” She sighed again. “He’s been acting weird since you came in this morning. Is it some Alpha/Omega thing I don’t get? Can you fix it?”

Juliet was one of the best betas Shawn knew. She was sensible and understanding, tough and unprejudiced. She stepped back if she couldn’t directly help and supported those who could. She publicly and openly deferred to Lassiter, despite him being an omega, because he was the boss.

If Lassiter wanted to tell Jules, he’d tell her. He’d seen _The Princess Bride_ and he was certain Lassie had too _._ When Lassie said _Guster only, on pain of death,_ he meant it.

“I dunno Jules, Lassieboat being weird is a course set for normal.”

Juliet paused. “He made coffee for me and complimented my _shoes._ ”

“Are they pretty?”

“No, sensible flats today.”

“Then I’m failing to see a problem here, Jules. If Lassie has been bodysnatched, it’s nice he’s been swapped with someone a little less alien.”

“That’s not like you to say,” she pointed out, sounding disappointed.

He wilted. “Sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry Shawn. You’ve clearly got something of your own to work through. Can I help?”

He thought about it for a moment. Did he want help? With no Gus, he’d usually pester Lassie or Henry… but he was kind of done with scaring people away.

“I just watched a kid lick a slug, twice. I believe I’m beginning to reach an Orwellian understanding of the full scope of humanity.”

Juliet laughed. “A client’s kid?”

“No, just at the playground round the corner. Oh! That kid just pushed another off the slide, Lion King style! This is better than WWE.”

“Feeling clucky?” she teased.

He dropped his phone. Scrambled to recover it. “I do feel like chicken tonight, like chicken tonight, like chicken tonight.”

“Is Gus with you?”

“He’s off to Panama to look for wide brimmed hats.”

“Look, McNab, you’ve got to just go and knock on those doors,” she commanded. A moment passed before she whispered, “Call me later, okay?”

* * *

Gus was waiting for him inside the office, a conciliatory packet of Funyons in his hand. “These,” he said, as Shawn walked through the door, “you get when you deserve them.”

Shawn whined. “Gus, don’t be a Prada-wearing Meryl Streep.”

“Someone has to be the alpha around here. May as well be me,” he said haughtily, waving the Funyons. Shawn tried to grab them, but Gus was too quick.

“I have some questions for you, Shawn. I recommend you answer them succinctly and truthfully.”

“Is that the type of plant that doesn’t need watering?”

“That’s a succulent.”

“That’s good chicken.”

“That too. One: Why did Lassiter ask you?”

Shawn slumped down on a pile of laundry. He found a toy pineapple and squeezed it to his chest. “Because he decided I’m adequate. Perfectly adequate.”

Gus faltered. “You’re deflecting.”

“You’re mean.”

The Funyons crinkled.

“Fine. For some reason I think he actually doesn’t hate me.”

Gus considered this. He nodded. “Two: Why haven’t you said no yet?”

Shawn sulked.

“Don’t you sulk at me.”

“I don’t know! He looked all… sad and squishy.”

“You haven’t said no because you didn’t want to hurt Lassiter’s feelings? Shawn, that’s never stopped you before.”

“Name one time.”

“You laughed when he asked you out that one time.”

Shawn lowered the pineapple. “When was this? In a Bold and Beautiful episode? Gus, I’ve told you before, scenes from that show leave too deep an impression on your reality. You need to stop. You have a problem. Maybe it’s time for an intervention. I’ll call Jules.”

Gus slapped the Funyon bag.

“No don’t hurt them you monster!”

“You really don’t remember? Three weeks after the McCallum case? He came to the office? Asked you to go to lunch with him?”

Shawn reeled back his memories. “I believe he said, and I quote: _Spencer, normally I arrest alphas snooping around my home. If you wanted us to hold hands and skip on off to an extended lunch, you just had to cease this tomfoolery and ask like a big boy.”_

He also remembered Lassiter had circles around his eyes from sleepless nights. His hair had grown long, his tie had been gone, his green bracelet hidden under his suit jacket. Vulnerable. Fierce. He remembered something in him going a little wired at the idea of it. Pinging, swirling, burning like fire. How easy it would be to push at the situation, take control, to protect and ruin him and _care_ until there was nothing left between them.

Lassiter came to warn him off, because that’s what Lassie does. The last thing he would have wanted was some knothead going all Fatal Attraction.

He remembered laughing, joking, because that’s what he _does_. Shallow. Keep it brief, keep it safe. First dates only. No dating friends. Or grumpy, antagonistic and workaholic detectives. What if he got bored? Itchy? Restless? Ran off to Mexico again? They deserve better.

“Come on Gus, _tomfoolery_. That’s super funny! Besides, he didn’t ask me to lunch. He was threatening me.”

“Uh huh.” Gus rolled his eyes. “Sometimes I forget how useless your nose is.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Not for the first time, Shawn felt a little defensive. He could smell. Some things. His nose wasn’t _useless_ , and even if it was it wasn’t his fault.

“You can’t tell the difference between gruyere and edam.”

“Lassie’s a cheese now? You’re not being very clear, Gus.”

“Do you like Lassiter? Yes or no. It’s a simple enough question.”

“No, simple is ‘Would you like fries with that?’ or ‘Is Pluto a planet’?”

Gus took the bottom corner of the Funyons and squeezed. Shawn listened in horror as a big handful of deliciousness was turned to dust.

“Of course I like him!”

Gus breathed. “I’m glad you admitted it. That’s why you haven’t said no yet. It’s also why you haven’t said yes.”

“That makes as much sense as Val Kilmer showing up in our hot tub.”

“What he’s suggesting is using you for your body.”

“A fun usage.”

“And when he never gives you the time of day again?” Gus scoffed. “Even if he did, you’re a commitment-phobe. There's no winning in this scenario.”

The more Gus laid it out, the more it seemed like a red pill blue pill scenario. Damn it, he hated not winning. “What should I do, Morpheus?”

“Talk to him. I won’t make no decisions for you.”

Shawn moaned. “That’s so boring. Keanu at least had the woman in the red dress!”

“Would you like to be a father?”

“I don’t know. Surely there’s a 30 day free trial for these things.”

“There’s no trial run with children. You can’t put it back. This isn’t health class where you look after a flour bag for a week and hand it back.”

“That’s not a bad idea.” Shawn stood up, checking his pockets: keys, wallet, Starbusts.

Gus stared at him. Shawn noted the way the Funyons fell a little from his grip. He could take them now. He didn’t.

“What’s a good idea?” asked Gus.

“Practicing with a flour baby. I skipped that class. It was on at the same time as Knight Rider reruns.” Gus frowned some more. “Don’t do that, you’ll ruin your dome. You, me, baking aisle? Without a trial run I’m bound for failure. Lassie doesn’t need that stress in his life. He has a bajillion sugars in his coffee and has Panda Express on speed dial. Add sole-parenting and he’s halfway to hyperpoxy.”

“Hypertension. Oh my god.” This time Shawn was the one staring, wondering what leap of logic Gus had made. “Then yes.”

Shawn’s breath caught. “Yes to a hot tub with Val Kilmer?”

“Yes to should you choose it, you have my blessing for your unholy alliance with Detective Lassiter.”

Shawn punched the air in delight. Exuberance aside, he felt incredibly relieved. “Hot tubs all round! Thanks buddy. You’re the best. Can I have the Funyon’s now?”

Gus considered this. “You talk to Lassiter. Then you can get a flour child.”

He tossed over the Funyons.

* * *

Shawn didn’t sleep much that night. He often didn’t sleep when his brain got too busy. When he was a kid, Henry used to sit and talk about nothing: the price of gas, baseball scores, and simple murders. Alone, his mind conducted orchestras of every noise he’d ever heard, stitched together collages of every face he’d ever met, and ran a best hits tape of missed chances and terrible mistakes.

He called Gus around sunrise, knowing it would wake him.

“?”

“I’m going to talk to Lassie now. I don’t know what to do, buddy.”

Gus mumbled.

“What?”

“wear a bulletproof vest…”

Great. “Thanks. Hey, do you have a different card now? I tried to get that hot tub but it bounced. The payment, not the tub. Although that’s fun too. I wonder if you can hire inflatable hot tubs like you can bouncy castles.”

Gus hung up on him.

He brought coffee instead of a bulletproof vest to Lassiter’s door. He thought about knocking, but then, what was the point of having a secret copy of Lassiter’s key if he only used it every few months?

Inside, looked at Lassie’s latest security system and could tell from the angle of the buttons which numbers were most frequently pressed. 2347. Shawn’s birthday? Well, clearly Lassiter _wanted_ him to break in. He punched in 32477 and grinned at the green light.

As expected, Lassie greeted him with a gun, body locked in a weaver stance, and face creased in a frown. What Shawn didn’t expect was that he’d be half dressed. His button up shirt was half buttoned, his tie was untied, and the tops of his long legs were barely by his underwear. Lassie’s alarm was usually set for 20 minutes ago – what had he been doing?

“Safety on,” he observed, nodding at the gun. “I knew you cared.”

Lassiter groaned. “Not going to ask. Stay here. I’ll put on some pants. That better be coffee, Spencer!”

Shawn reached out and tugged off his tie. It slid around off and he noticed how Lassiter stilled. “Can I burn this?”

Lassiter scowled. “Give that back.”

“Why is it called ‘burnt orange’ if it’s not a request?” he called to Lassiter’s retreating form.

Shawn felt strangely nervous as he waited for Lassiter. He checked out his fridge, pantry, but nothing had changed much since the last time he broke in. Should he make breakfast? He flipped through some files, memorized some details, and yawned. His keys jangled heavily in his pocket.

How terrible would it be if he rode away? Gus would forgive him; he’d done it before. He’d ride out, be someone else for a while. Grow his hair long, get a piercing, a tattoo maybe. Learn how to bake bread. Meet people and run out before he got too deep. That was the problem, wasn’t it?

He thought about what Lassie said, about not wanting to reveal himself, not wanting to be seen. He got that. His approach was different – he liked filling himself with so much that people discounted everything, even the truth, as a joke. Why should anyone know who he is, if he didn’t know himself?

There were some pictures framed near the TV. Last time that spot was claimed by a Murder She Wrote boxset. Before that, a Cops boxset. Photographs are sentimental. Lassiter is rarely sentimental. One was of the latest departmental picnic – the group shot that Marjorie from accounts took, and where Gus’ face was blocked by Buzz’s hand. Another one from the Christmas Party – this time, just Juliet, Gus and Shawn laughing at a drunk Woody. The third photo was of the beach. Empty, early morning light, and peaceful.

“Leaving so soon?”

Shawn jumped, and shoved the keys back in his pocket. “Lassiewise! Great tie choice.”

Lassiter looked down and back at Shawn. He sat down at the kitchen table and sipped his coffee. Shawn dithered for a bit, before deciding to sit down too.

Shawn breathed and looked into Lassie’s eyes. So blue, so sharp. “I can’t do it.”

Lassie’s eyes shuttered and Shawn felt his stomach twist. “Wait! That came out wrong.”

“No, I think you were pretty clear, Spencer,” Lassiter interjected, sounding weary.

“Are we friends?”

Lassiter stared at him. “I thought we were. What did you think we were?”

“I only break into friend’s houses.”

“Good to know.”

“I don’t think I want to lose you. As a friend.”

Lassiter’s face became even more steely. “You don’t think I can keep my head on straight?”

Shawn hurried to explain. “No – I don’t know if I can.”

Lassiter swallowed. He looked like he was trying to work out how to say something. His eyes darted to the front door and Shawn knew he needed to fix this.

“I was just wondering. If we do this. Could we be the sort of friends that cuddled?” he asked.

Baffled blue eyes squinted at him. “I guess so.”

“Friends that kissed?”

Lassiter paused again. Shawn held his breath. Then, raising an amused eyebrow, Lassiter smiled. “Sounds reasonable.”

His throat seized up, and he barely got out the next words: “Friends that love each other?”

To his surprise, Lassiter didn’t shoot him. He didn’t tell him to get out. He didn’t fall at his feet. He didn’t kiss him. No, he scrubbed his hands over his face and remained sitting at the table. “I don’t do things by halves, Spencer. You’re either my sperm donor or my husband. Either way, I need us to be civil in this. You know what you’re offering?”

“The chance to become the most highly protected alpha in Santa Barbara?”

Lassiter scribbled down a few things on his work notepad. Finally, he narrowed his eyes and pointed at Shawn for emphasis.

“My heat’s in three weeks. If we’re not ready by then, we wait until we are. If I find we don’t work, don’t pretend we do just because I want a kid. I know when you’re bullshitting so don’t even try.”

That was it, wasn’t it? Lassiter always knew when he was pretending. He saw Shawn, saw who he was. He knew Shawn would likely lie and screw up and still wanted to have a go anyway. “I’ll try,” he agreed.

“We can’t change professionally. You follow the rules, treat me with respect or so help me god I’ll shoot you until you resemble fly screen.”

“Got it. I still solve cases, you still growl, still no nookie on crime scenes.”

Lassiter kissed him. It was brief: Shawn barely reacted to Lassie pulling his face to his. Lassiter let go.

Shawn blinked, stood up. Next thing he knew, Lassie’s tie was silky in his hand, the hair on the back of Lassie’s head thick and springy. His lips soft and wet. He heard a moan and this close he could smell something - Lassiter’s scent? His arousal? He pulled him up, off the chair, until he had him pinned against the table. Lassie wound his long legs around his hips, keeping him close. Shawn wished there were no clothes between them, that he could take him here, in the kitchen, in the bedroom, in the bathroom. Hold him, laugh with him, taste him, love him until there was nothing left undiscovered between them.

He broke the kiss. Before he could move away, Lassiter grabbed him firmly by the back of his neck, eyes dark and cheeks flushed. “We’ll do dinner. Here. Tonight. Bring dessert.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shawn practices parenting, Juliet is a delicious chipmunk, and Lassiter is a private goofball.

“Dude, how many species of flour is there?” he wondered aloud, automatically highlighting the types and variants. The baking aisle in Walmart was _huge._ Everything seemed huge. He wrinkled his nose.

Picking out two smallish sacks, he read one label out loud and paused. “What is self-raising? Would I need to raise it less? Would I _want_ to raise it less?”

Gus looked at the mentioned sack of flour and clicked his tongue. “Self-raising assists with the rising of baked goods, like yeast or baking soda would when mixed with plain flour. I am afraid it would be just as dependent as plain flour regarding postnatal development.”

Shawn considered the other flour sack he’d picked up and scoffed. “No child of mine would be run of the mill plain.”

“You got that right. Home brand?”

“Come on, son! This is a child, not a price tag. What about that yellow stuff near the top?”

“That’s corn flour,” identified Gus, before returning to peruse the wholemeal organic section.

“I said yellow. Cornflower’s blue.” Gus rolled his shoulders back and gave Shawn the _look_. The one that said _you're not as funny as you think you are._ Shawn grinned, pleased. “I love that you’re here man, with me, shopping for babies. Like we always dreamed. Oh!” He found the _one_ and held it aloft.

“Mixed grain?” Gus raised an approving eyebrow. “I can see that.”

Shawn felt his bike keys grow warm in his pocket. Gently, he passed Gus his flour baby. “Got to head to the station. You’re alright with first shift of babysitting right?”

“Shawn!”

* * *

Shawn called Juliet on his way into the SBPD, balancing four smoothies in his hands. “How much has Lassie told you?” he said, instead of his usual greeting.

There was a pause on the other line. “You have a lot of explaining to do.”

He grinned. Lassiter had told her! He passed a smoothie to Buzz, who was filling in for front desk today. “I love explaining things, Jules. Little known fact, but chipmunks come from Australia.” He passed a second smoothie to Buzz. “They were smuggled aboard F1 fighter jets in the first world war, because to Australians, chipmunks are a delicacy second only to the apple strudel.”

He plopped Juliet’s smoothie in front of her, making her jump a little. She snapped her phone shut, looking like a cross little chipmunk. Such a delicacy.

“You’re dating now?” she stage-whispered. From the way she suddenly looked around, somewhat guiltily, he surmised Lassiter had asked her to keep it on the down low for now. Baby steps baby steps baby steps.

“Yup,” he replied, popping the ‘p’.

“Why now? It’s been ages! Did he confess yesterday? Oh my god, was that why you were acting so weird?”

“No, I confessed to him. He didn’t need to. I always knew I astounded him.” He raised his hand to his temple, in his badass psychic gesture. “And I wasn’t acting weird. You were.”

Juliet rolled her eyes at his obvious deflection. She took a sip from her smoothie and eyed him thoughtfully. Suddenly the beta grinned, somewhat scarily, and pulled him down so she could whisper in his ear. “If you break his heart they will never find your body.”

“We’ve all been bodysnatched,” he breathed. She shoved him away and pointedly got back to work. That’s fine. He had a heist to plan and a book or two to steal.

* * *

Shawn swiveled on his office chair and cheered himself up by acknowledging he had indeed learned a few things. Firstly, that Gus was prepared to make a 34-page Godfather Contract, which was nowhere near as cool as the films. Shawn reckoned if he pushed the loopholes enough, he could get Gus to edit it to 50 by Sunday through addendums alone.

Secondly, that juggling a child with detective work was going to be tough. He sighed as he put down his stolen copy of Henry’s dogeared _What to Expect When You’re Expecting_.

“I have to watch you all the time?” he asked of his flour baby. “What if I need to pee? Or shower? Do they make baby boosters for motorbikes? Who knows – not this book!” He leaned forward and rested his head on his hands. “It mentions legwarmers and whether or not a perm will affect your growth!”

His flour baby slumped a little in his chair. Guilty, Shawn picked him up and cradled him.

“I’m sorry bud. It’s just… I start with _Part Three – After the Baby is Born_ and expect the next twenty pages to tell me what to feed you, how much, how to hold you, how to teach you blackjack, how to wash your clothes. But no, I get a laundry list of what can go wrong: everything from hair loss to depression – alongside horrible platitudes to ‘Give it Time’, ‘Lower the bar’, ‘Dress Yourself.’ I’m not making this up! An actual subheading that says ‘Dress Yourself’!”

He pulled his flour baby up to his ear and listened. “What’s that? The book is stupid? I should read the Star Trek book instead?”

What a sensible child he had. Without much thought as to whether Henry would want his stolen books returned, Shawn lobbed _What to Expect When You’re Expecting_ into the trash and picked up the book by Dr Spock.

“Come along, Val Kilmer Jr, lord of the skies, defender of Gotham,” he later sung to his flour baby, hoisting him into his arms. “Babysitting time! Daddy’s got a date.”

Gus took over with barely a glance back, heading straight for the microwave popcorn and American Duos.

* * *

Dinner went very well. First date well - which worried and pleased him by equal turns.

Lassiter had ordered in some filling and flavorsome Thai. Shawn had brought Gus’ mom’s homemade tapioca pudding. Their conversation, which he had feared to be awkward and one sided, was wonderfully easy. It reminded Shawn of how they were when they worked together, except minus the stress, competition and audience. A part of him thrilled at how Lassiter still surprised him. Baffling, stubborn, hardworking detective. He may not always be a nice man, but he was a good man.

And relaxed, he noted, dragging his eyes over revealed sternbush and forearms. He still wore his black shoulder holster, but it contrasted well with the usual white button-down shirt. He watched Lassiter’s eyes light up and his cheeks lift and couldn’t help but smile in return.

“First time you were attracted to me?” he asked, half expecting Lassiter to pretend not to hear him. To his surprise, Lassiter blushed and flicked his eyes to the right, clearly remembering something. Keen to get to that story, he offered him an olive branch.

“For me, it was when you picked be up during our first case together. You lifted me up! Hauled me into the cop car!” He let out only a partially exaggerated sigh. “I like that about you.”

“My car? My strength? My inability to take crap from insane alphas?”

“Your stubbornness. Though it also frustrates me. When you’ve got an idea, you tend to get stuck on it. Even when there’s evidence pointing the other way. Like Maverick in Top Gun when he thinks Iceman is his enemy.”

“They _were_ rivals,” Lassiter pointed out, then reconsidered. “I suppose they save each other at the end.”

“So what about it, Lassie? When was the first time you realized I was the most attractive man on earth?” Lassiter scoffed. “The most charismatic man in California?” An eyeroll. He tried again. “Perfectly adequate?”

Lassiter sighed and walked to the couch. He swung his long legs on the coffee table and took a sip of his scotch. “When you were arrested for reckless driving without a license.”

“What?” Shawn shook his head and kneeled on the couch beside him. “That was years ago. I didn’t know you were there for that.”

“I had a mustache then.”

Just like that, Shawn remembered. 1995: the night he stole a car and nearly made it to 3rd base with the goth chick, Cassie Reynolds. The night Henry gave him a criminal record to teach him a lesson. Inside the precinct, a gangly, distracted rookie couldn’t find his cuffs. That was Lassie? Oh, Lassie! “I was 18.”

Lassiter screwed up his nose. “I did not know that at the time.” He found something interesting to look at on the coffee table. “It was close to my heat. You smelled really good! I didn’t say I was proud of it.”

“I like how you always tell the truth," he praised. "No matter how bizarre or weird or goofy it is. You’re like tarot cards, only real.”

“One of us has to,” murmured Lassiter. Shawn ignored that and nudged him.

“Did you remember me then? The second time we met?”

Lassiter shot him an odd look. “A bit. I remembered you were a con. I couldn’t remember exactly until later.”

“Ah, so that’s why you didn’t trust me. First impressions, man!”

“I didn’t trust you because you were a habitual slacker who had insider information. Are you ever going to tell me the truth?”

“Already have, Lassidoodle.”

Lassiter gave him such a disappointed look that Shawn quickly changed the subject.

“When do you think we’ll go public? I have a perky little flour baby I need to take into work. I call him Val Kilmer Jr, and you’ll meet him tomorrow. I admit, he might be a little hard to explain without –”

“A WHAT?”

Okay, maybe not the best subject change. Unfortunately, his mouth kept going, unable as always to let something go.

“A little hard to explain without people knowing why--”

Lassiter’s voice was an inch from being actual steel. “Spencer. What do you mean by _flour baby_?”

Shawn told him.

“So not only do you want the entire precinct to know, but you also want them to know I'm thinking of having _a kid?”_ Lassiter looked genuinely distressed. Shawn recalled what he said back in Mario’s, about being afraid of failing, and of other people knowing he’d failed.

“They respect you, man! Well, they fear you – which is basically the same thing. No matter what you do, you’ll always be the tough guy.”

"Spencer..."

"Are you worried they'll think we're moving too fast?"

"That's stupid. I've known you for years." Lassiter's hands shook slightly. “I’m a private person. Why can’t we just not tell anyone, and if they don’t work it out it’s their fault?”

Now it was Shawn’s turn to feel distressed. He loved catching up with people. Was Lassiter ashamed of him? He looked down at his shirt, stomach slightly bloated after dinner. Hardly that lean, mean, eighteen-year-old devil may care bad boy Lassiter so fondly remembered. Had he touched himself during his heat, thinking of him, of a nameless face and scent? Well, there was something he had that eighteen Shawn did not have – a slight spark of maturity. Forcing a smile, he got up and began serving dessert, talking as he went.

“Your choice, Lassie-shh. I’ll make a cover story for Val. I'll say I was visited by a magic buffalo who gave him to be my latest psychic conduit - a story that is half true already. The buffalo's name is Leonard, by the way, and he visits me every Thursday when it rains." He handed Lassie a healthy serving of pudding. "I can say Val needs constant minding and attention so I can fully connect with the spirit world.”

With a little more dessert and plans for the week ahead, they were back on track – discussing Lassiter’s pansexuality, of all things.

“She did an excellent Clint Eastwood impression! And of _course_ that’s what you take from the story.”

“Did she do the impression before or after you sat in her lap.” Lassiter rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “Go on, tell me more about your wild youth. What other omegas did you fool around with? I can’t believe you let me think you were straight!”

Lassiter scowled, but it had no heat and his eyes still sparkled. “I didn’t try to convince you of anything. I’m just… choosy.” Shawn preened. “And for the last time, I didn’t mean to kiss her; I turned at the wrong time as she was reaching for something!”

“Did she come back for more?”

“Maybe,” said Lassiter indulgently. Shawn laughed and Lassiter grinned. “Seriously Shawn, you never did anything with another alpha? I thought you had a _thing_ for Val Kilmer.”

“First of all, Val Kilmer is a treasure, along with Billy Zane, Molly Ringwald, and Toucan Sam from Froot Loops fame. Secondly, do you count accidentally walking in on Gus in the showers at Camp Tikihama?”

“I don’t know – did you blow him?”

He mock-gasped and threw a scandalized couch pillow at Lassiter. Then it hit him. The words, not the pillow. “Oh,” he said, reaching for Lassiter’s hand. “You called me Shawn.”

Lassiter’s response was tug Shawn over until he straddled him. Curious, but not at all uncomfortable, he looked down at the detective between his legs.

“This is the wrong way round, isn’t it?” Lassiter should be in his lap, not the other way around. Would he mind having it this way around? Lassiter firmly pulled him from his musings.

“We’re keeping it PG-13, Spencer.”

“Pity. I liked Shawn.” Lassiter slid his gun hand up his leg and Shawn swallowed, his throat dry. “PG?”

Lassiter’s hand diverted to grasp at Shawn’s hip. “PG,” he confirmed.

Completely in control, Lassiter kissed him then. A confident tongue slipped down his throat and Shawn melted. He let the omega control the depth of the kiss, the length, the teeth. Firm hands gripped his neck and thigh, holding him upright, keeping him still.

Shawn wanted to know what PG-13 films Lassiter was thinking of, because the noises he made put the situation into at least an MA range. He pulled against Lassiter’s grip, maneuvering so he could snake his way down the omega’s neck, tasting and nipping. Lust clouded his thoughts and all he could think about was Lassiter, stubborn, determined, warm Lassiter. Encouraging hands slid over him. Hot breaths against his ear. Little moans breaking through as Shawn rocked against him. He slid a hand between them down, down, down. Would he let him…?

“Alright. Slow down, bucko. I’m not one of your floozies.”

Lassiter’s cop voice effectively brought him back to reality and he burst out laughing. At Lassiter’s expression, he let go. Dismounting from Lassiter’s lap, he raised two placating hands.

“I can do slow,” he promised, looking deep into Lassiter’s eyes. Would he think he was inadequate now? To his surprise, Lassiter’s face softened. He wasn’t mad?

“I never would have picked you as having restraint.”

“I like restraints. I wasn’t kidding about the handcuffs, Lassie.” Lassiter’s face turned a wholesome pink. Stroking a thumb over Lassiter’s stubble, he reflected how much he liked restraints, boundaries and rules. Pushing against them was so _fun_. Finding loopholes and cracks to slide between…

Lassiter gave him a soft and intimate kiss. This time, Shawn let him keep it chaste. And hoped they could stay like this forever.

“Goodnight,” Lassiter murmured. “Now get out. I want to sleep.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lassiter stresses over telling his colleagues. Shawn is protective.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for waiting! I want to try to get chapters out biweekly, or weekly if work gets too heavy. There was a scene I wanted to add into this chapter and I spent a little time getting it right. Also, top shelf kudos, bookmarks, and comments! I know this is a small fandom, so I really do appreciate the cheer 😊 Keep being wonderful!

Once Shawn had left, Carlton did not go to sleep straight away. He did what he usually did when his mind buzzed: he stuck to his routine and paid attention to the details. Whenever his mind wandered he soldiered back to reality. To the warm cinnamon of his toothpaste. The coolness of his carpet. The smooth texture of the drywall. The slide of his holster from his shoulders. The scent of Shawn on his shirt. On his trousers. On his belt. On his skin.

He… should wash these. Wipe down the belt, the holster. Scrub his skin, wash him away. Like this, anyone who wasn’t a beta could tell what they’d done. Or assume what they had done. He paused at the laundry basket, clothes dangling in his grip.

Would that be terrible? Colleagues knowing about his personal life? Making jokes around the coffee urn. Unsolicited advice, expectations of friendship, of favors, niceness and being a good little omega. Fetch the coffee, take a rest, are you sure you can handle this case? Careful, there’s blood. It’s a grisly one. Need some air? Need a hand? Salacious omega, Spencer’s young, what a cougar. Needy omega, bet you’ll propose just to stop him from running away. Careless omega, getting yourself knocked up by someone you work with.

He grimaced. The backlash among his peers was bad enough with Lucinda, once Shawn had outed them. Spencer’s stupid, annoying inability to keep a secret. No, he could keep a secret, as long as it suited him; he’d never admitted to being a fake psychic. The real issue was 57 jobs since high school. Flighty. Flirty.

“We can go slow,” he mocked to the empty room. Flighty. His gut froze. He knew that if Shawn wanted to flee, he wouldn’t stop him. He’d let him go, to be happy, and it would _hurt._ Shawn running away was nearly guaranteed. If he pushed too hard, too slow, too fast, too little…

What if he hadn’t told him to leave? He returned to the couch where they’d kissed and trailed his fingers over the fabric. Focus. Details. Coarse, slightly warm. Shawn’s arousal. His own.

He swore.

Stupid, foolhardy… why hadn’t he considered Shawn might want to try this too? Why couldn’t they have just bypassed this emotional hoopla as planned and gone straight to business. Sex with Spencer. Have a baby… with Shawn. Oh, god. Stupid crush. Stupid hormones. Stupid hope. He had to _try_ , he had to. Try to make Shawn stay. He could show Shawn he was willing to make a sacrifice.

Shawn hadn’t liked the idea of keeping their relationship in the dark. He'd brought it up and then been disappointed in his answer. Contrary to popular belief, he _could_ read emotion – it was his job, after all. He just didn’t usually _care._

He pulled his clothes from the laundry basket and pressed them against his nose, aroused and angry. In his wardrobe were some plastic garment bags. Yes, this should keep the clothes smelling like them. He’d walk into work tomorrow wearing the same suit, smelling like sex and they’d _know_. He wouldn’t even need to tell them.

He ripped the clothes out of the suit protector and tossed them back in the laundry basket. Shawn was full of contradictions – how was he to know if this was what Shawn even wanted? To let everyone know the divorced, angry head detective had managed to pull the young, bright and beautiful consultant?

He saved the clothes again. Shawn was his. If he were a different person, he’d want to shout it across world. He’d die happy knowing that he’d had him. Loved him, cared, _tried._ Even if it doesn’t last, even if it was just for now.

* * *

Shawn managed to sneak down to the gun range without Lassiter or Dobson noticing him. Relaxing behind them, he partly preened at his sneaking skills, and another part acknowledged they just couldn’t hear him over the sound of Dobson finishing his clip. Val Kilmer Jr rested snugly in his purple papoose – something which had taken him far too long to work out how to use – and the smoothies in his hands were fresh and delicious.

Finally, the cops pulled off their hearing protection and pressed the button to send their shooting targets whizzing up. Huh. Lassiter’s grouping was a little off today.

He paused, mouth forming Lassie’s name, when he heard his own.

“Shawn Spencer eh? Didn’t take you for the sort to go for him. Like your alphas pretty, do you?”

Shawn stiffened, not for the insult, but because as Dobson said this, he had leaned across and scented Lassiter. In an exaggerated way – but still, that was Lassie! You can’t just go up and into his personal space like that. There had to be laws against it. Even if you’re a strong, capable and _single_ …

“If you don’t stand back I’m gonna castrate you and feed your balls to the squirrels.”

Dobson laughed and pulled back. Shawn let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

He cleared his head a little, running over what little he knew about the other detective, but all the details his alpha hindbrain could remember were physical. Like a budget Val Kilmer, he had blond hair, brown eyes, strong features and was taller than him. He wore a red wristband designating him as an alpha. Shoes, black, well-polished. White button-down shirt, ironed. A tan gun holster framed his shoulders, emphasising their breadth and strength. Bulky, classic alpha. Lassiter’s slender runner’s build contrasted well and Shawn’s grip on the smoothies tightened.

No. Trust in Lassiter. Trust in him. He looked down at the cups of creamy blitzed pineapple. Lassiter could handle himself.

“Just checking in with you,” Dobson clarified, smiling, and finished reloading. He inhaled deeply, scenting the air and raised his eyebrows. “Wow! It’s almost as if he’s here! So, was it a once off or…”

“Officer Dobson, this is literally none of your business.”

Dobson hummed in agreement. “So it’s true then. How long?”

“Go arrest a crackhead.”

“That long, huh? So, three weeks? Three years?”

Dobson pulled on his hearing protection. Lassiter’s stance remained unchanged and he kept his hearing protection on until he’d finished his clip. His groupings were tighter than before, but not by much.

Dobson’s groupings were very tight.

“Compared to his old man, he’s not much of an alpha. I’m just saying, if you ever needed protection, he’s hardly going to pick up a gun and help you. If you're interested in getting back in the scene, I have a few friends who--”

“What on God’s ugly green Earth did I do to give you the impression that I need _protecting?”_

To his credit, Dobson's shoulders tensed. “I’m sorry. I overstepped. It’s your choice Carlton, I know that. You know how I get around this time of year.”

Shawn remembered then the death of Dobson’s omega partner – it happened not long after Shawn arrived back in Santa Barbara. What was that, 2005? 2006? Dobson usually arranged a big memorial drinks night, though each year fewer cops remembered the reason behind the anniversary.

He shot Lassiter a serious look. “I guess let my worry for my family in blue get in the way. Hey, you still free for softball tomorrow lunchtime?”

They turned around then, giving Shawn a split second to paste on a grin and act like he hadn’t been eavesdropping.

“Lassie! Fancy seeing you here! Jules said it was a slow day. Hey – can I try that?” he pointed to Dobson’s gun with one smoothie and passed the other to a red faced Lassiter. He was also wearing the same clothes as he had last night, only now with a tie. Lassiter rarely wore something two days in a row – not without washing them – and he spared a moment to wonder why. He breathed in, too close to be anything other than an alpha scenting his omega. Lassie smelled _good_.

“Spencer—”

“Sure thing,” agreed Dobson. His sharp, brown eyes raked over him from head to toe, pausing only to raise an eyebrow at Val Kilmer Jr.

Just like that, Shawn knew Dobson was testing him. Seeing if Shawn could protect Lassiter. And for a moment, the rebel in him – who sounded a lot like Judd Nelson – wanted to decline.

He stopped smiling and took the proffered gun. He felt its weight, checked the barrel, the clip and its sight. Standard issue Glock, unlike Lassiter’s preferred classic M1911A1. Straightforward. He sauntered into Lassiter’s lane.

“Don’t you want a new target sheet?” suggested Dobson.

Shawn shook his head and glanced at Lassiter, who merely sipped his smoothie. His posture was relaxed, but there was an appraising glint in his eye.

_“Squeeze the trigger as you exhale, Shawn,” said Henry._

_“But dad, I don’t want to hurt anyone.”_

_“You’re not going to hurt anyone. They’re just bottles.”_

_“But—”_

_“No buts. Alpha or not, no one is going to take you seriously as a cop if you can’t shoot.”_

He aimed quickly – almost impossibly so – and shot.

“You missed,” observed Dobson.

“No, he didn’t,” rumbled Lassiter, and Shawn preened. The target paper flew towards them and Dobson whistled. He poked a finger at the holes – each shot perfectly aligned next to Lassiter’s.

“Guess I don’t need to worry at all. Congratulations - I’ll order cake. See you two around!” He reclaimed his gun and walked off whistling. Shawn went to follow, not quite ready to end their conversation, but Lassiter stopped him with a hand to his arm.

“But Lassie, he’s going to order cake!”

Lassiter shrugged. “So what? I see you've brought the... flour baby.”

Shawn frowned. Maybe Lassiter wasn’t getting it. “Everyone will work out that we're dating? Getting hot and heavy middleschool style, over the clothes? Planting a kid in the cabbage patch?" 

Lassiter interrupted him, eyes narrowed. “If anyone doesn’t get it, they deserve to hand in their badges.”

Giving cake was symbolic of giving approval for a couple. Before Nazis rocked up and made Germanic things _tres_ _uncool_ , the tradition used to involve honey bread, which was flat and golden. A lot like gingerbread, just less gingery. Cake offered room for personalized messages and was _so_ much tastier. Both symbolized the sweetness of a relationship, a promise of community, and a filling of bellies.

But Lassiter didn’t want that. He’d made that clear last night. He was missing something. Once again, he looked at the slightly crumpled clothes and wished he had a better sense of smell.

“Look, Spencer,” Lassiter started, and Shawn realized he’d been quiet for too long. “They’re going to smell it on us anyway soon. Hell, Dobson wasn’t the only one to do so. He holds a lot of sway though – his approval will influence the troops’ reactions to us.”

Shawn focused on the most important thing to infer from Lassie’s speech. He moved closer and was thrilled when Lassie let him scent him. “You didn’t shower?”

“I thought about what you said last night. I stand by what I said. I don’t want to tell anyone. But.”

“You left clues for them!” He kissed Lassiter, who kissed back after only a moment of surprise. Shawn felt a brief panic of _are we moving too fast?_ before Lassiter deepened the kiss and he forgot nearly everything. Nearly. Lassiter was still tense under his hand, shoulder blades worried and unhappy.

He pulled back to give his pineapple smoothie a thoughtful sip. “But why, Lassie? Why sacrifice your privacy?”

“Aren’t you happy?”

“Uncomfortable Lassie is a given. Embarrassed? Adorable! Sad Lassie?" He pouted for good measure. "Never. I could have dealt with not telling people.”

Lassiter sighed. And grinned. "You're a good marksman, Spencer."

Dobson, being the enigmatic person he was, somehow managed to call up a bakers, get a delivery and arrange party poppers, all in the time it took for them to emerge from the gun range. Shawn wrapped a possessive arm around a stiff Lassiter and coaxed him forward through the bullpen. He knew Lassiter would be focused on the few judgmental stares, rather than the overwhelming glee. Or maybe he didn’t like glee either. Glee did not seem like his preferred brand of high school drama. Lassiter brushed him off with a scowl.

Lassiter shouted and people began fleeing back to their desks. “What in hell do you think this is, a church social? Stop gawping like you’re an extra to Explosion Gigantesca de Romance and get back to work!” He pointed at a blushing, mousy looking detective. “Get that smile off your face or you can kiss your badge goodbye!”

Shawn, meanwhile, opened the cake box and laughed. The cake was iced in a shaky hand, either pressed for time or unused to piping. The message was clear and easy to read though: _Happy Anniversary!?_

Lassiter groaned. “Think we should clarify?”

Shawn shook his head, busy cutting them a thoughtful slice. “Leave them guessing.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Parental reactions, some kissing bits. Shawn is a chaotic shit who worries about losing control. 
> 
> A bit of a darker theming in this one; next chapter resorts back to normal foolishness, don't worry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had written a whole political rant. But this is Psych. A place to escape such tomshittery. So, I'll just say my heart goes out to all of us, for the uncertain future, the troubling past, and the condescending present. My Psych DVDs may be a decade or so old, but they're just as effective as they always have been: a sunny balm against life's inevitable pain. 
> 
> Can't wait for Lassie Come Home. 
> 
> In other news, this fic could last a little longer. I hope you don't mind. They've rather taken the sightseeing route.

The rest of the working week went by surprisingly easily. Everyone knew about their relationship, but aside from the fact they wound up making out most nights, nothing really changed. He still sent Lassiter messages throughout the day. Lassie still responded to them with varying degrees of patience. He still tried to win at crime solving. Lassiter still chewed him up for not following procedure.

Once everyone knew nothing _changed_ , people didn’t really care.

Except for Henry, surprisingly.

“Is he pregnant?”

“What? No, dad! How did you even know about us?” He peered down the wide, sterile corridors, checking they were still alone. Mrs. Jenkins, a key eyewitness, chose that moment to shuffle out of her room. With her fifty’s curls and bright red lipstick, she looked like Marylin Monroe would if Marylin had decided a bathtub was a good place to hang out in until all wrinkled up. The octogenarian waved a cheese sandwich at them and shambled off to the nurses’ station. Probably in search of _that nice young man Burton._

"Oh please, give me some credit Shawn. How could I not know."

Shawn resisted the urge to scent his clothes or check them for Lassie hair. No, Henry probably used his spy network in the police station. Cheater.

“What are you doing here anyway? I’m on a case! Oh no.” He took in the Hawaiian shirt, freshly washed and ironed. Matching white socks evenly pulled up his old man legs. “You're dating someone from here? This is an old folks home!”

Henry’s lips hardened at the edges, inadvertently affirming the deduction.

Shawn pretended to consider this information. “Is it Rosie M. Banks? She may be 98, but she just informed me she’s a firecracker in the sack. You know her as the romance novelist who specializes in the whole _love transcending social classes_ theme.” He raised his eyebrows knowingly. “You’ve got her _Only a Factory Omega_ hidden within _War and Peace._ Ooh, is it the saucy Mrs. Jenkins? Don't lie, that cheese sandwich was for you, wasn't it.”

“Karen. A nurse,” snapped Henry. “If Lassiter’s not pregnant, what do you call Gus childminding a sack of flour?”

“Floursitting.”

“Shawn!”

“I call him Val Kilmer Jr. He’s my flour baby. You always told me to be responsible.”

“Gus is looking after it,” he pointed out, eyebrows raised smugly. Shawn rolled his eyes at the cheap shot.

“I figured that the responsible thing would be to give him to Gus.”

“I always knew you’d lose control one day, Shawn.” Henry’s eyes flicked over his face, reading him. “He better not be using you. How do you even know the kid's yours?”

“Firstly, the only thing Carlton is expecting is coffee. Secondly, Gus would never use me. If anything, I use him. He’s so good at tapdancing, and sometimes I just want to have a show without having to reach for the remote. Is that too much to ask?”

Thankfully, he knew exactly how to wear Henry down. After a terrible cup of coffee in the nursing home cafeteria, he even let Lassiter off with just a whispered warning about having space for a body in his backyard. And Henry agreed to floursit tomorrow afternoon.

“That went fairly well, I think,” noted Lassiter. Shawn had to agree. Lassiter licked his lips. “Can you get rid of the flour though? I appreciate the sentiment. But it’s just plain unprofessional.”

“Val Kilmer Jr is not unprofessional, Lassie. Nor is he plain flour. Come on, it’s your turn to feed him. Preferably in front of the witnesses again.”

“Out, Spencer.”

Shawn obeyed – mostly because he’d already done everything he needed to here. He now needed to sneak into Mrs. Banks’ grandson’s place, find the evidence, and by 3 o’clock he’ll have divined his findings to an appreciative audience. Lassie will finish his paperwork by 6, and they’ll be ready in time for dinner with Lassiter’s moms at 7.

* * *

“Wine?”

Lassiter nodded once but Shawn shook his head.

“No thanks, Mrs. L. I drove here.” He noted Lassiter’s moms glancing at each other. Car keys in Althea's handbag, wine already in their glasses: they’d driven here too. “On my bike.”

At his clarification, they nodded – Althea enthusiastically, and Mona once. She narrowed her eyes. “Call me Mona, Mr. Spencer.”

“Only if you call me Shawn.”

Althea grinned and Mona smiled, though barely. From the creases in her forehead, she was a woman who frowned more than she smiled, so he took it as a compliment.

She reminded him of the moon, white haired and pale skinned, her silvery eyes sharp and watchful. Her shoes were sensible and her dress was stern. Bookkeeper, perhaps. There was a blue smudge on the side of her right hand that hadn't quite washed off, like he got whenever he used his hand to erase something from the office whiteboard. If she were a teacher, she'd be wearing a wristband. No, she was organized, sensible, and worked part time in the private sector. If she were a bookkeeper, that would go a long way explaining Lassie's almost pathological dime-counting.

Mona had clearly passed her genes down to her son, but they didn’t share everything. He knew Lassie had a rarely mentioned father, from whom he must have inherited his round, incredibly blue eyes. He watched Mona fuss with her napkin and wondered if she had an oddball side too, or if that was all Lassie.

"How much money do you make? What? We're already on a first name basis."

"Mona," Althea admonished gently. "Carlton can look after himself."

If Mona was the moon, then Althea was the sun. Bright, fashionable clothes complemented her dark skin and her hair haloed her beaming face. Wrinkles burst from the corners of her eyes and her lips were perpetually tilted up in kindness and openness. Althea was a government worker; her green wristband that designated her as an omega had a dent: she was someone who often rested her hands on a desk edge. Her accent was very neutral, almost deliberate, and she listened carefully to each thing that was said. He noted her smooth pronunciation when she ordered an Argentine wine.

Of course, he wouldn't need to guess if Lassiter had done more than shrug when he'd tried grilling him yesterday:

"I've never done a meet the parents before! First Date Shawn, that's my little known full name. Come on, Lassie. What do I do, say 'Hi, I want to shampoo the wookie with your son'? I'm going to be Ben Stiller milking a cat if you don't help me."

Lassiter had sighed unhappily and with great effort unhooked his mouth from Shawn's neck. "Don't milk a cat. It's just a dinner. Hell, you can charm people who want to kill you. You can do the same tomorrow."

"So you admit, they'll want to kill me."

Now though, Lassiter surprised him by answering for him. "Shawn runs his own business and has an impressive work history."

He checked to see if Lassie's pants were on fire. They were not. "I run it with my best friend," he added, and deserved a medal for not adding anything else.

"I've seen you in the paper for the good work you do. Bruton Gastor's your friend's name, right? You seem to be very successful," said Althea. Her eyes twinkled knowingly.

"Papers?" Mona waved an accusing chopstick at him. "I know you're a private detective. I know you pretend to be psychic. I read the papers too, since my son rarely calls home." She paused to add a gentle aside to Althea: "I believe his partner's name is Gurton Buster."

"That is a nice name," said Althea.

“I don’t like dangerous jobs. Have you considered doing something else?”

“But then I wouldn’t have the pleasure of working with your son each week.”

Mona considered this and she served herself some fried rice. “Are you going to marry Booker?” she asked, and though Althea shot her an exasperated look, she didn’t say anything.

Lassiter spluttered out, “Mother!” around his inhaled dim sim.

“It’s been long enough,” she said pointedly, though Shawn was unsure if she was mentioning it had been long enough since Lassiter’s divorce, or if she thought they’d been together for longer than they had. “And he tolerates you – that’s an improvement over the last one.”

He laid a hand on a flustered Lassiter and sighed, fluttering his lashes a bit for good measure. “It has been a long time, hasn’t it, Carly?”

Lassiter shot him a look of complete betrayal. Shawn decided to save him.

“How did you two meet? I’m sensing there’s a good story there. Bookkeeper falls in love with a translator?" He winked. "Were there government secrets involved?”

Althea beamed and told their story, Mona interjecting occasionally. He listened – he couldn’t not listen, not with the way Henry raised him – but there was a portion of his brain that wasn’t busy encouraging Althea’s story with well-placed nods and laughs.

He looked at their wine glasses, the bottle of malbec safely split between the three of them. He’d gotten blackout drunk once. Only once, at 20, downing beers and tequila around a bonfire on Texan farm with a large group of college students.

The night had been clear and warm, insects buzzing and the fire dancing. The first drinks started well. His thoughts slowing until they were nearly manageable. He’d liked that part. He hadn’t liked the rut that came soon after, how easily it had taken over. The other alphas in their party turning from friends to enemies in his eyes. In response they too turned feral. Peter, Rosie and Lindsey. All of them on what should be a fun Spring Break. All of them high on anger and rut. Peter had broken a rib. He’d cut Rosie’s face with his nails.

Bruised and battered but victorious, he wound up with his prize: a lovely omega. Maria was no prize, she was a lovely human being who he treated like an object, stretched out and gleaming under the stars. The smoothness of her willing skin bruising soft like a peach. It wasn’t making love. It was rough and mindless. Heartless. He was a lover not a fighter, and he shuddered at the memory.

The bruises from that night took weeks to fade, and his shame for losing control haunted him. He’d drunk alcohol since then, sure. But never too much. He avoided it, and omegas in heat, and thankfully nothing else had since triggered a rut.

Lassiter’s face was relaxing by the time their final dishes arrived. He told jokes while worrying about being able to control himself. In a heat, he could go into rut. What if Lassie couldn’t push him back, even if he wanted to?

He felt Lassiter’s shoe press against his and noticed the detective was looking at him with those piercing blue eyes, like he was seeing right through him. He swallowed. Without breaking eye contact, Lassiter reached under the table and placed a warm hand on his thigh.

* * *

“I can’t believe you convinced your father to floursit,” said Lassiter, his suit flapping in the sea breeze. Shawn grinned, taking in the scenery. Normally tense shoulders were relaxed, so much so their arms brushed while they strolled down the beach. The waves crashed loud against the relative quiet of the night and Lassiter’s face shone pale in the dark. His lemon gelato glowed white. How was he taking so long to eat it? His own icecream he’d finished _minutes_ ago.

“Henry’s upset he wasn’t the first to know. C’mon. Just one little taste.”

Lassiter slapped his hand away from his ice-cream. He made a show of eating it slowly. “Good things come to those who wait.”

“But more speed is less waste.”

“My icecream, my choice. You were nice. To mom and Althea. A lot of people get put off by how they’re gay.”

Shawn learned two things then: that Carlton’s exes were intolerant asses, and that his moms were both omegas, and not beta-omega as he’d first assumed. He thought back to the dinner they’d just had and was pleased to see the evidence lined up nicely.

“You’re a bit gay too, Lassie. I hardly mind that, either. I’m telling you, if Claudia Schiffer ever came looking for grumpy Irish detectives, I’m keen to watch.”

“Shut it. What are we gonna do tomorrow?”

“I’ve got a standing dinner with Henry and Gus. I can come by after, though. Bring some pineapple, maybe the DVD of the new Clint Eastwood film.”

Lassiter shot him a look out of the corner of his eye. “I was thinking of coming to yours actually.”

Shawn panicked, thinking of the amount of cleaning he’d need to do. Was his couch even visible under his laundry? Wait. He _lived_ in a laundry.

Lassiter continued, composed and casual. “I was thinking how unfair it’s been for you. Being in my place. My territory. Kissing. I never would have guessed you’d be able to hold back.” He finished his icecream and Shawn felt his face grow warm.

“No need to thank me. I wasn’t lying when I said I wasn’t much of an alpha.”

Lassiter frowned at him. Shawn wanted to reach out and smooth his forehead. “What do you mean by that?”

“I couldn’t even tell your moms were both omegas.” He tapped his nose in explanation.

“Jesus Shawn, your sense of smell is _that_ bad? They hugged you for chrissakes. Even mother, and she doesn’t even hug me.” He huffed. “I think they love you.”

“That’s not true. I charmed them, but they love you. In the universal way only two gay moms can.” He gestured grandly to the ocean. “Gus will tell you some lie about an unfortunate accident involving mentos and coke. The real story behind my ineffective sniffer involves a drowning puppy, a rough Santa Barbara sea swell and a broken surfboard.”

Lassiter found a place to sit and pulled Shawn down next to him. Shawn squeezed the sand under his hands and felt it fall through his fingers. Lassie took his hand and squeezed it. “Is that why you don’t scent me?”

Shawn looked at Lassie, confused. “I scent you.”

“You scent me like you’re an alpha lead from a 90s romcom. I’ll show you.”

“Gere? Grant? Cusack?” Momentarily distracted, Shawn almost missed Lassiter unbuttoning his shirt. Blood rushed south, leaving him lightheaded as the shirt parted to reveal dark chest hair and pink, pebbled nipples.

A hand on his jaw guided his focus back to Lassie’s pinched face. “You’re not going into rut, are you?”

He shook his head, but all that came out was an inelegant, “Nrrr.”

He heard Lassie snort and, seemingly convinced Shawn was still in control of his faculties, straddled his lap. Oh, sweet warm lovely goose bumped skin. He rubbed his hands over Lassiter’s back, down his hips and through his sternum bush.

“Open your mouth.”

Shawn throbbed at the command, obeying even as part of him wanted to take him, right here, right now on the beach where anyone could see them. Late night tourists milled above them, on the promenade, on the wharf and he did not care.

Lassiter gripped the back of his head and guided him down towards the crook of his neck. Pushed him down until his teeth pushed into where he knew there was a scent gland.

“Breathe.”

Shawn inhaled and blood rushed immediately south. Sweet, salty, musky, all the good things and wet dreams rushed into his lungs, into his bloodstream, into his cock. All the hints and wisps of scent he’d got over the years, from other omegas, from Lassie, felt like ash compared to the fire blazing through him.

“Can you smell me now?”

He nodded, not moving from his position. Curious, he mouthed harder against the flesh and was rewarded with a fresh release of scent.

He gripped at Lassie’s back, at the warmth of his flushed skin. But that smell? It hit him then. Oh sweet pineapples, Lassie was aroused and he could _smell_ it. He was ready for him. Lassie rocked against him, a firm weight. Home. He moaned, wanting to thrust but Lassie had him, Lassie was in control, he trusted Lassie to –

He came to with his arm wrenched behind back and his face in the sand.

“Get it together, Spencer.”

“Cold showers baseball scores grandma eating meatloaf,” he agreed, trying to still his hips.

“I’m not doing it on a beach.”

“Salty coffee. Raccoons. Bucket hats.”

“Wade into the ocean,” sneered Lassiter, but he could hear the humor In it.

“Only if you join me,” he said, mortified.

Lassiter released his arm. “Um. Can I come to yours?”

Shawn rolled over to his back, groaning as his cock flexed joyously and pitched a tent to the night sky. Unfortunately, the sand did not choose that moment bury him alive. “Sunday?”

“Tonight.”

Shawn froze, a _no_ shaping his lips, because he was way to strung up, way too close to losing control. Did Lassie not know what he was asking? What if Lassie just want to make out some more? He let the _no_ die when he felt long, confident fingers card through his hair.

“Trust me, Shawn.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some sex, suggested cannibalism, a funeral.
> 
> aka a hot mess but you already knew that didnt you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting there. I swear. It's nice to see they're finally letting me get close to the planned end. 
> 
> After that... I've been considering continuing this universe with some pregnant!Lassie casefic. If only so I can finally write Woody.

If Hollywood was to be believed, now was the time to offer coffee, but that was absurd because who in their right minds, on a night off, chose to drink coffee?

“Pineapple? I have both fresh and stuffed,” he offered instead, picking up the pineapple from his fruit bowl, and the plush toy pineapple from his couch. He held them both up and hoped Lassie would look this way, at his couch, and go _wow Spencer that’s a horrible couch that you and I could improve immeasurably by sitting on it. Without clothes. Naked._ He shook away any remaining pulp from those juicy thoughts.

Lassiter snorted but didn’t say anything. Like a tall, stern beansprout he took his time in raking those delightfully blue eyes over his inner sanctum. Checking for exits, traps, hiding spots, vantage points – or at the least, that’s what he assumed Lassie was doing. There was more chance of getting Gus to admit Ghost wasn’t a documentary than Lassiter being actually interested in his homemade plate collection, his recently purchased historical novellas, or his rotating clothes rack. Although, fair point, the rotating clothes rack was pretty cool.

Should he say, ‘the bed’s swaddled in silk sheets’? Maybe he should slip on his Cusack impression and switch on his boombox.

“You don’t have any photos,” murmured Lassie, looking confused. He turned slowly, as if to make sure that no photos of Henry Spencer were about to break loose from the skirting boards and judge them, Judy style. Then those blue eyes met his and the detective seemed to startle. “I mean, this is a… place you’ve got.”

“The coffee’s swaddled in silk sheets.” He tried to cover that up with a laugh. “Sorry, that’s a lie. Act-u-ally, the coffee is swaddled in burlap sheets. At least, I _think_ it is coffee. Coffee melts at room temperature, right?”

“You’re over-enunciating.” Lassiter sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ve made you uncomfortable.”

“The bed’s comfortable,” he rebutted, but found he could now only look at the solitary patch of floor still visible under his clutter.

“I’m sure it is,” came the reply. “Would you like time to freshen up?”

“Oh!” He grinned, finally getting it. “You want time to root around in my stuff.”

“Absolutely.” Lassiter toed a clothes pile with a polished shoe. “Not the only thing I’ll be rooting though.”

He gasped. “That was a joke! A terrible one, but Lassie, I’m so proud of you! If anything breaks you owe me a case!”

After a few dashes of cold water and a few hasty chews of a Juicy Fruit, he heard swearing and the opening riff of Yazoo’s [Only You](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OWV_7JBzXhI). Lassie must have found his 8-track player, and judging from the muttered curses, he couldn’t figure out how to turn it off. Deciding Lassie had had enough time to snoop, he checked his appearance one last time. Body? Clean. Breath? Fresh, not minty. Hair? Perfect.

He came out, easily spotting his 8-track player half-smothered in his laundry basket, Yazoo still crooning about needing for another day. Only to find a still-clothed Lassiter in his bedroom, bent over at the waist. The sight only barely distracted him from how the surly detective had his bedside drawer open. Damn his acute observation.

Said detective turned slowly, angrily. Silver handcuffs dangled from his hand. If turning could be a color, then Lassie had painted this one a wary red. Like one of those frogs. Or racoon eyes.

“You. Stole. My cuffs,” intoned Lassiter.

Shawn stepped forward and raised two hopefully placating palms. “I swear on the life of your car: you gave them to me.”

“Why would I do that?”

He put on his best drunk, surly Lassiter voice. “I want you to have these.”

Lassiter sunk down onto the bed. “Oh god. That wasn’t a dream?”

“Nope,” he said, and stood in front of Lassie.

"Did I really say...?"

"That I am unstoppable, astounding, arrest guaranteed? Yes, you did."

“Don't be absurd, I would never say that. No," he said with a sigh. "I bet you stole these. I’m taking them back.” But instead of slipping the cuffs into his pocket, Shawn felt hands grip his thighs. He stepped forward, allowing Lassiter to pull him closer. He stared down at a thick head of hair and felt a confident hand slide onto his erection.

“Ah…” he gasped and couldn’t stop flinching away slightly.

Lassiter pulled back, hands hovering uncertainly. “Should I… go?”

“No! No, Classy Lassie. I um.” He stared into those lovely eyes. “Our first time should be light and fluffy. Like a romcom where all the single middleaged omegas wear flowing white shawls and have huge airy apartments.” At Lassie’s continued stare, he felt he should explain. “Come on dude, I nearly went into rut tonight. Earlier? On the beach?”

“Light and fluffy,” repeated Lassiter. “Spencer, it’s been a long week. You’re going to have to spell it out for me.”

“All right. Look. Lassie, I don’t want to lose control.”

"That's all?" He felt a warm, dry hand take his own. “You're not having second thoughts? You didn't finally come to your senses?" Lassie smirked. "I can do control. Do you trust me?”

“Is Andie pretty in pink?”

He let himself be pulled onto his bed, positioned until Lassiter was above him. Warm, strong thighs bracketed his, soft breath fluttering against his ear.

“I don’t expect light and fluffy tonight,” Lassiter murmured. “I expect us to have fun. You said you like these?”

Cold metal slid against his left wrist and he gasped.

“Good.” Lassiter cuffed one hand to the bedpost and left his right hand free. “You can get out any time. Key’s here.” He placed it on the bedside table, easily in reach. If he slipped into a rut, he would be stuck and Lassie would be safe to leave, because keys and locks were far too complex for his animal hindbrain to put together.

“You’re so kinky right now!” he praised. “My safe word is Henry.”

He regretted saying that when Lassiter paused in the unbuttoning of his shirt. “For the love of all that’s holy, don’t call your father’s name during sex.”

Thinking, he dragged his free hand through Lassie’s exposed chest hair and tweaked a nipple. “Fair. Bassoon?”

Lassiter shuddered and stumbled out of his suit pants. “Sounds too much like Lassie.”

Instead of pointing out how they sound nothing alike, he memorized the sight of a naked Lassiter. Long legs, a confident wiry body, little dimples above his hips. For someone so immersed in his dangerous job, his body was almost completely unmarred. A small white line from his collarbone operation. A pinch of scar tissue from a bullet graze. He ran his fingers over the stripes of long faded stretchmarks on his thighs, the strategic dustings of grey and black hair, and a quickly beating chest.

“Flashdance?”

Lassiter rolled his eyes and his hips. “Another time.”

“Make it happen.”

Lassie’s lips were warm, dry, and by now as familiar as home. He took the opportunity to enter, dipping his tongue into a hot, wet mouth. He dug his heels onto the comforter and pushed up; Lassie got the hint and peeled him from his jeans. His socks were next, his boxers, and then his shirt was ripped open.

"Hey! That was Gus' shirt."

"Don't lie."

Lassie was right: this wasn’t fluffy and light. It was something in a whole other genre. He laid back as Lassie gripped him and a thought crossed his mind. The thought whispered to him, in a voice that sounded far too much like his own, that this felt like making love. Their own oddball brand of stupid, angry, competitive love.

“You call that a kiss? Come on Lassie, you can do better." He pouted his lips, waiting.

Lassie ran his hand through his hair, pupils blown. “Mmm,” he said. “Been wanting this.”

He'd been wanting this too. A week of making out and dry humping, of stopping because they were new, and this was. This was... weird. It was weird, wasn't it? They'd planned for a baby before their first kiss. Who did that? A hand dipped down into the heat between them and he caught it. Lassie’s grip was warm and dry and callused from pen and leather and gunmetal… and for a moment he needed to catch his breath.

“Why?” he asked, the moment suspended in time. He thought if he looked outside, he might see water drops from sprinkler systems falling in slow motion, and the wings of mosquitoes beating as slow as breathing.

“Why what?” breathed Lassie, and for a moment, his eyes are wide and all too steady.

“Why’d you stop? You’re a good kisser, Lassifrassiass,” answered Shawn, because it is obvious, even though he’d rather ask why Lassie chose him.

Lassiter smiled, a wide one, and Shawn thought Lassie’s smiles should be currency because they were so rare. Was that the right analogy? Gus would know. His Gus-voice sighed, replying, “ _I_ _t’s because you think they’re valuable, Shawn._ ”

“That’s not right,” he answers Gus-voice aloud, because his own internal voice at that point in time was channeling a hummingbird.

“Shawn. Stop thinking.”

"Thought I was the psychic," he mused. He tightened his hold on Lassie's hand and pulled. _Oof_. "You make an excellent blanket, Lassiefluff."

For a man with a decidedly slender build, Lassie was a bit heavy, but his lips were just there and finally they kissed again. Fire and ice makes steam, he noted while delving into the warm seam of Lassie’s mouth, the heat of which was so incongruous with his icy blue eyes.

He was tugged from his thoughts when Lassiter kissed down his neck, chest, ticklish belly, down, down, down, and _there_. The world moved again as Lassie sucked him in like a creamsicle, getting him wet and slick. He gasped, feeling boneless as he hung onto those short dark locks for dear life.

He pulled himself up, watching Lassit—no, _Carlton’s_ mouth stretched wide, engulfing, and a hand at the base of his cock, working him. The other hand… he tracked his eyes from the nipples, up to his shoulder, down to an elbow, and _oh._ He watched, breath caught in his throat as Carlton worked himself in time to his bobbing head.

Having only one hand free seemed suddenly unfair, and he pulled against his binding. He wanted, he needed to… He barely recognized his own voice, so dark and hoarse: “Let me taste you.”

There was barely a pause. Carlton moved so he was still sucking, only now facing the other way. He groaned as Lassie straddled his face, nearly sitting on him. Who needed two hands? He pulled him down until he was more firmly seated and licked into him a thankful kiss, grinning when Lassie moaned.

He slipped a finger inside, twisting and rotating while Lassie trembled above him. He groaned, pleased with how wet and ready his omega was for him. This was definitely worth the wait. Oh sweet pineapple upside down cake, he could be in there, come in there. He could thrust until Lassie was full and round with him. Take him in the shower, in the hallway, in the evidence room. As much and as often as Lassie needed him, fill him up and hold him close. He sucked, nipped and lapped at Lassie. Tasted him, felt the way he shook and twitched around his finger, pulsed against his tongue.

"Mine," he breathed, feeling _happy_. 

He barely noticed how Carlton was really working him now, both hands tight around his knot, and his mouth open wet and determined. He barely noticed how Carlton's legs shook, or how his chest might just explode from it all. He continued while Lassie gasped out his orgasm, until the world swam and spiraled and turned white around them.

He barely heard it, almost thought it could be the next song on his 8-track, but Lassie's whisper sounded nothing like the belting declarations of Bonnie Tyler.

"Yours," whispered Lassie, and padded to the bathroom.

* * *

“Why are you doing that? Lassie, I demand you put those socks back. Lassie, stay. Bad Lassie.”

Lassiter chuckled but continued to dress in Shawn's clean clothes. He looked bizarrely normal in a Whitesnake tee, and the less said about his baseball shorts, the better. Lassie was a man made for many things, including short marathons and short tempers, but definitely not short shorts.

“I’m not sleeping here. When was the last time these sheets were washed?”

“Lassie…” he wheedled, reaching for the freshly showered omega. "It's time for adult naptime."

Lassiter gave him a conciliatory kiss. “I need better lumbar support than…” he waved his hand at his bed.

“I’ll have you know forty years ago this bed was the height of comfort.”

“That's not a bed. That's a laundry pile on a bed frame. The only reason it has a shape is the fact that some lunatic covered it in a fitted sheet."

"Possibly," he allowed. Was this how his old one night stands felt when he left before morning? "You're still being mean. See if I let you have any more play dates with our child."

"About that. You need to stop letting other people floursit Junior all the time. You can't do that with a real kid."

"Ha! I knew you cared. You care care. You care like a big daddy care bear--"

"You better not be coming to the station tomorrow,” Lassiter interrupted to warn. He buckled his belt, licked his lips and Shawn's exhausted cock twitched. “I might jump you.”

“Well now I’m definitely coming.”

“Cheeky. Enjoy dinner with Henry.”

“Pfft.”

Lassiter gave him one last kiss. Shawn listened to the door close with a strange, tight feeling in his chest, and hugged his pillow to sleep.

* * *

Dinner with Gus and Henry did not go as planned. He walked in, saw the steaks resting, the perfectly charred corn and dropped his purple papoose. It slipped out of his suddenly stiff and immobile hands to slump on the ground. Beside him, he heard Gus dropping the babybottle, its glass shattering against the cold kitchen tile. Henry was saying something, but all Shawn could do was read the shakily iced message on the cake.

_Don't screw up._

He'd felt like this once before: during his motorcycle accident. There was the moment prior to the crash, and it was a moment of calmness, of things doing what they should be doing. A crunch - the bike falling from his grip. A gasp - his own. Then a cold freeze of weightlessness, heart in throat like he was on the world's worst rollercoaster. Spinning. The last thought before the darkness took him was disappointing and banal. There were many things he was thankful for, and ' _I'll never know who killed the Spelling Bee judge'_ not being his actual last thought was one. Waking to flashing lights, someone holding his neck, and a nurse soothing him. Asking if there was anyone to call. If he had insurance. His knee didn't even twinge these days, but he still had intrusive thoughts, remembering, wondering if he'd died that day.

Unlike thinking he had died and gone to heaven, as was usually the case, he came to the awful conclusion this was actually hell. And Henry Spencer, standing there in his flour-spattered apron, was clearly a demonic torturer.

“You cannibalized my baby!” he murmured, something snapping inside him. 

Gus swayed as if he were about to faint.

Henry spluttered. “I baked a cake! It was flour!”

“It?" he screeched. "That was Val Kilmer Jr, not Pennywise! I can’t believe this. You’re going to ruin everything. He’s not going to have a normal upbringing, he’s going to hate me, I can’t do this with you right now!”

He stormed outside, slamming the door on Gus and Henry’s raised voices. Henry, when he caught up to him, gripped the door of the Blueberry as if by pure strength he could stop him from leaving. Shawn pursed his lips. Where were the wires? This dashboard was as seamless as a magic eight ball. If only he’d thought to pick Gus’ pocket. Hotwiring looked so easy on TV. There must be an opening. Below, maybe?

Henry loomed there like a lovechild of Lurch and Hawaiian Uncle Fester. Addams Family Values, along with Christmas Vacation and Evil Dead 2, was one of the rare cases of a sequel being better than the original. Shaking his head, he focused on the real issue: trying to start The Blueberry without a key. Feeling his father staring at him, too quiet, Shawn felt his temper recede. “What?”

“You… want to have a baby with.” Henry seemed to struggle for a moment. “Carlton?”

Shawn flicked his hand over the gearbox. Could you roll start an automatic?

“Look Shawn. I know I wasn’t the best father. And you probably won’t be either! Because nobody’s perfect. And in the end, despite all your mistakes, I’m proud of you.” He looked up to see Henry studying his socks and Birkenstocks. “You’ll do your best; I know you will.”

Shawn nodded slowly, feeling clearer than he had in months. He’d gotten approval from everyone but Henry – it surprised him to realize how much that mattered. “Fine. I’m not eating Val though.”

Henry winced. “Okay, so I may have misjudged. But it’s traditional, Shawn! I already dropped off the one I made for Detective Lassiter.” He exhaled and started walking back to the house. “Never mind. I knew it was stupid. Come on, steak’s still good?”

Shawn nodded slowly and climbed out of the car. “You know, we’re only thinking about trying, yeah? We’re not actually parents yet.”

“I know Shawn. Gus just told me.”

“That snitch better not have eaten all my corn again.” He paused, patting down his pockets until he located his phone.

“What are you doing?”

“Lassie needs to know not to eat that cake.”

“Why not? I spent over an hour—”

“Val was his child too!”

Lassie arrived later that evening. And so the four of them gathered around a small grave in Henry's garden, one foot wide, six feet deep.

Gus began the proceedings. “We gather here today to mourn the passing of Val Kilmer.”

“Junior,” interrupted Lassie.

“— lord of the skies, defender of Gotham. Though not with us for long, he touched us in many ways. Shawn, would you like to say a few words?”

“Well baby," he announced, "you came into our lives as an experiment, to test our daddy-skills. And yeah, you tested them, buddy. Sweet baby boy, you tested them. But you taught me so much and—” he stopped, his voice cracking traitorously toward the end. Gus wrapped an empathetic arm around him.

Dirt was sprinkled into the grave, followed by a shovelfull. All four of them laid down dandelion bouquets, and said their final goodbyes.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pre-heat side effects: increased libido, aggressive behavior, and... nesting?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience, work got a little crazy! To make up for missing last Tuesday, I'll update twice this week ;)

Shawn leaned close to a freshly shaved neck, breathing in that clean, crisp smell of Camay, but Lassiter didn’t jump. Instead, a slender hand shoved him away. 

“Stop it.”

“How did you know I was here?” he pouted, unable to keep the whine from his voice. He dusted sand off of his jeans and back onto the floor of the Crown Vic. 

Lassiter continued to train his gaze on Cheeky Buns, the name of burger truck idling about 50 feet east on E Cabrillo Boulevard.

“How did I know you opened the backseat door, reeking of tacos? Or when you hid in the footwell for all of thirty seconds?”

“Firstly, that deliciousness you're smelling is burritos. Secondly, I want it to be set for the record I waited five minutes.”

Lassiter scoffed, and to prove he was a patient person he waited a few moments in case Lassie wanted to reply. He didn’t, so he wiggled a foil-wrapped package in front of the detective’s frowning face.

“You’re Juan in a million.” Lassiter ignored him. “With cheese, just as you like it.”

Pleasingly, Lassiter snatched the burrito. “Leave,” he snapped.

Shawn planted a kiss on his cheek. “What’s with the frown, Lassie town?” Lassiter didn't move away so he tried again, this time planting his lips on a clenched jaw. “You’re close. Wet and horny, or at least meant to be. It's hard to tell. This burrito is indeed fragrant.”

“I’m extraordinarily aroused.”

Confused, he checked for visual clues, but Lassiter hadn’t moved. His aviators still reflected the jolly yellow signage of Cheeky Buns. His brows were pinched, his mouth a hard line, his posture straight. Weird. He leaned down, about to scent him.

The passenger door opened, and Juliet slid in. She jolted but didn’t spill her coffees. “Shawn? What are you doing here? Carlton, did you invite him on our stakeout?”

“Of course not,” Lassie growled, and once again Shawn’s face was met with a hand, shoving him away from Lassie’s neck.

Perturbed, and frustratingly aroused himself, Shawn ignored the urge to adjust his jeans. Instead, he gasped.

“The spirits are guiding my hand paw!” He waggled a small chicken burrito. She accepted it, eyes squinting.

“Are the spirits saying we’re watching the wrong food truck?”

“No, they’re trying to give me a clue. Queso? Onions? No, layers?” He slumped dramatically.

Juliet read out loud the writing on her foiled burrito. “S chick sal?”

“That’s it! I’m sensing a pen, a shifty server. Writing something on their cheeky buns!”

Lassiter groaned. “They’re using the order codes to communicate.” He turned to Jules. “Good idea, O’Hara. Now get him out of here. I’m going in.”

“Hey!”

“Get out, Shawn.”

Later, over a lonely bottle of Snapple, Shawn’s cell pinged.

_‘I get off at 4.’_

Shawn grinned and tapped out a reply. 

_‘can i watch? ;)’_

* * *

The closer they got to Lassie’s heat the angrier Lassie became. At first, he attributed it to a combination of omega hormones, and stress of working twice as hard in preparation for his upcoming week off. It wasn’t until the Chief pulled him into his office that he realized the real cause.

“Mr. Spencer, sit down please.”

Shawn shot a look of despair at Gus, who watched with wide eyes from the other side of the glass doors. At Chief Vick’s glare, Gus scuttled away, presumably to the relative safety of the Blueberry.

She raised her red wristband. “You see this?”

“I see a police chief waving a government issued alpha wristband. I also see the ghost in the corner, Jim. He tells me the communal milk in the department kitchen has been off for three days. Is there something you'd like me to focus on?”

She pursed her lips. “A wristband. Very good Mr. Spencer. Look around the station. How many out there would die to protect Detective Lassiter?”

“Are we including the coffee machine?”

She shot him a look.

“I know it’s a delicate time for Detective Lassiter, and I get that you want to protect him.” She shook her red wristband at him. “ _We_ ,” she said, making it clear she meant alphas _,_ “all do right now. What he needs is you to calm down. All you’re doing is agitating him.”

“Agitating? Like Jenny Agitating? Didn't she star in Logan’s Run?” Gus would know.

She opened a manila folder. “Detective Lassiter has completed seven interviews today. Which you know, since you interrupted every single one of them. You don’t even have a case with us.”

“Come on chief, they looked like extras from Robocop 2. Wild eyed, crazed—”

“They were nuns and they were witnesses. Because of you, what should have taken 40 minutes took four hours. Consider this a warning. Next time there will be consequences.” 

“But—”

“He can look after himself, Mr. Spencer. Dismissed.”

* * *

That evening, Shawn waited until Lassiter had finished directing the uniforms before pulling him aside. Lassiter’s shoes clicked against the brown tiled floor, and the Arlington theatre’s bright lights did nothing to hide the dark circles under his eyes. He leaned against an orange column and crossed his arms.

“I’m on duty,” he reminded, voice sounding flat. “The only reason you’re here is because that fool of a victim asked for you by name.”

“I made a mistake.”

“And this is noteworthy, why?”

He touched Lassiter’s arm and was pleased when the omega mirrored the gesture.

“I thought you were angry at your job. At life. At weak coffee and hormones and at no point did I think it could have been you were angry at me.”

Lassiter blinked at him. “Are you apologizing?”

He winced. “I’ve come to realize I haven’t been as helpful as I usually am.”

“I’d say more annoying than usual. Overbearing, even.”

Shawn dropped his hand, throat tight. He closed his eyes and startled when he felt lips brush his forehead.

“I appreciate the apology, Shawn. Next time though, if we’re having a personal conversation, wait until after I’m off duty?”

He considered this. “I don’t know if I can promise that.”

“Off the crime scene?”

“I can try.”

“Good enough,” said Lassiter, lips twitching ever-so-slightly upwards. “Want to sleep over at mine?”

Shawn kissed his answer into Lassiter.

* * *

They split up to finish processing the scene. Shawn and Gus played with the props backstage, looking for clues, while Lassiter complied witness statements. Shawn looked out over the auditorium to see Lassie talking to a blonde witness. Her long, bare legs were strong, her slinky red dress doing little to cover the muscles in her shoulders. Alpha. Single. Attractive.

Lassiter said something and she laughed a little too much.

Vick’s words echoed through his head, and he reminded himself that just because he wanted to protect, to lay claim, didn’t mean that was what Lassie wanted.

But the witness was… handsy. She leaned impossibly closer, even as Lassiter stepped back, keeping a professional distance between them. Her nostrils flared, clearly interested in an omega so close to heat. She moved closer again, eyes hooded…

Next thing he knew, Shawn was pushing against strong, lilac-clad arms, wanting to get back out there. A second person's slender fingers gripped his jaw and forced his head up to meet a startlingly blue gaze. So blue. Omega. Something inside him whimpered.

“I lied, Spencer.” Shawn tried moving again, against the alpha at his back. “Shawn!” He looked up – blue eyes so blue. “I lied, here was no list. No list of alphas. There was only you.”

“Only me?” he echoed, the words sounding strange.

The omega nodded. Of course. Who else could there be but him?

“My Carlton,” he crooned, something coming back to him. Oh, thoughts. Thoughts are good. Lovely Lassie. His Lassie. He drove his nose into Lassie’s neck and breathed deeply.

“Yours,” Carlton agreed quietly.

Gus let go of Shawn and walked away, rolling his eyes.

* * *

Carlton Lassiter would never nest. At least that’s what he told himself as he wandered through an aisle dedicated solely to pillows. He was in the middle of poking memory foam when his cell vibrated. He put it back in his pocket when he saw Shawn’s name on the caller ID.

It wouldn’t be absurd if he purchased _one_ pillow…

His cell dinged for a text. Sighing, he gave in, strapping himself in for the decoder puzzle that was a conversation with Shawn. 

_Vick isn’t answering my calls either :((( ill never work again & die poor & b eaten by racoons  
_

_Youre only banned from the station until after my heat._

_so unfair :’(_

_You went rut & tried to attack my witness_

_U forgave me tho <3  
_

_ps u get my bowling ball when i die dnt tell gus :*_

Carlton rolled his eyes and put the memory foam pillow in his cart. In the middle of deciding what towels he wanted, his cell buzzed again.

_Im bored. Wat r u doin?_

He typed _suck it up_ but deleted it when he realized Shawn could read it as an innuendo.

_Same as you: not working_

_I like the yello towel :)_

He spun around but couldn’t see where Shawn might be hiding. There was a security camera behind him, but he dismissed that as a possibility.

He called Shawn, listening carefully for any obnoxious ringtones. Nothing. Predictably though, Shawn picked up almost immediately.

“Martha Stewart speaking.”

“Spencer! Where are you?”

Shawn sounded pleased. “Would you believe I’m on a yacht with Tom Cruise?”

“Hardly. Are you hiding in the discount bin?”

“Please. I haven’t hid in a discount bin since 1998. Would you believe I'm in a stripperboat with Buzz? No? How about a dingy with my father? It’s torture – he wants me to gut these fish. I didn’t know fish had guts!”

Carlton sighed and dropped the irresponsibly fluffy yellow towel into his cart, where it joined a silky throw blanket and the memory foam pillow. He pushed the cart towards the family planning aisle.

“You better not turn up smelling like fish guts this evening.” He listened, bemused, as Shawn shouted something like, “Even Lassie thinks fish guts are gross,” and Henry’s fainter reply of, “For gods sakes, those aren’t guts, Shawn!”

“I promise I’ll scrub all the scales from my body before I get home. You're missing out though. I make a suh-weet merman.”

He smiled. Shawn said home.

“Ooh! Can we try the strawberry flavor?”

Startled, he dropped the lube he’d been just checking out. Thankfully, it landed in the cart. “How are you doing that? Don’t you dare say—“

“Psychic!” 

“Darn it, Spencer! Wait, there was a buzz then. Is someone texting you? Who’s here?” He checked around, looking for Guster. The store was unfortunately busy, and he couldn't tell.

“No, that was definitely a bee. A sea bee. They pollinate corals. Great little creatures.”

No lavender-clad sidekick materialized, so he fished the lube out of the cart and replaced it with the strawberry flavor, after checking its ingredients for mint, of course.

“Will we be having fish tonight?”

“Ew, gross. No thanks. These fish have eyes. Nah, man, I wish I could be there with you. Doing the heat prep shop. You’ve got snacks, yeah?”

“I have snacks at home.”

Shawn snorted. “Don’t worry, Gus and I will cover snacks.”

Carlton paused at the row of condoms and felt a thrill of pleasure when he pushed past them. He grabbed vitamins, the last thing on his list, and headed for the tills. “Last heat I craved Goldfish.”

“Consider it already beside the bed.” There was some shouting on the other end. “Gotta go. Henry’s got a sardine, or something. Enjoy the rest of your lunch break, Lassie!”

He smiled at the phone, knowing Shawn couldn't see it. “Don't be late.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lunch, awkward chats and an oncoming storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is set in an alternate universe. Anyone who goes to the Santa Cruz Island for lunch purposes should check their incumbent universe’s laws prior to setting up a campfire. Also, I did not use correct nautical terms. I feel Shawn doesn’t know them, so don’t come for me.

Shawn sipped a relaxing soda and leaned back in his camping chair, taking a moment to look out across their picnic spot and over to the deep blue sea. He felt safe in the cove, protected from the howling wind. Above them towered rocky cliffs, their pale sides dusted with short green vegetation. Next to him on the beach, Henry squatted in smoke-colored sand and tended to their lunch. The fire hissed and the air became fragrant as he seasoned the fish with lemon, salt, and pepper.

“My mother, your grandmother, took me here before I married your mother,” said Henry.

“Did she kidnap you too?”

Henry simply smiled and removed the fish from the flames. Shawn held out his plate, hungry despite knowing this particular fish once had eyes.

“Can I give you some advice?”

“I’d rather you wouldn’t.”

“Well, it’s this: things ain’t Hollywood.”

“Well now everything’s clear. Thanks dad.”

“I saw your Us Magazines under the red vines. Pages filled with steroids and nose jobs, photoshopped images and phony captions. Movies and TV are the same. Scene after scene of rehearsed dialogue, staged sets and fake edits. Filled and filled until there’s no ambiguity. Be strong. Be sexy. Be happy. They sell an idea. They don’t sell reality. You wanna know why?”

“Absolutely, I can’t wait to hear why.”

Shawn put his headphones in only for Henry to tug them out.

“Because real life has blank spaces. Quiet moments where I would just hold your mother. The silent morning dance as we got ready for work. The unspoken fear of, ‘am I enough?’ You don’t need to fill every moment. They fill themselves, Shawn.”

Shawn rolled his eyes. “Are you done?”

“Not yet. You’re no Hugh Jackman. No one has ever looked at you and thought, ‘Now that’s an alpha.’ You’re lazy, complacent, egotistical and shortsighted. You don’t do commitment and have never finished something under your own steam. You get your best friend into dangerous situations every damn week – how are you gonna protect an omega?”

“I can change that,” he protested, throat tight. “I could be like—”

“Like nothing. Lassiter’s decided you’re adequate. And maybe in going after what you want you’ve stumbled upon what you both need.”

Shawn’s hands shook as he lowered his plate to the earth. Dark blue waves crashed against the beach, tide slowly rising. Eventually he found his voice. “Just because we’re not Kurt and Goldie doesn’t mean we don’t work.”

“That’s it, kiddo.” Henry waved a pointy fishbone at him. “Look. I’m not saying you won’t or shouldn’t change. Hell, a little humility wouldn’t go astray. But everyone changes over time, and I hope whatever changes happen in your lives, that you will continue to balance each other out.”

Shawn accepted the hug, his father’s strong arms around him an unfamiliar feeling. “Can we never do this again?”

“We can try. Hey,” he said, slapping Shawn awkwardly as he pulled back. “I’ll even let you drive the boat back.”

“You’ll park it?”

Henry scoffed. “Like I’d trust you to do that.”

* * *

Meanwhile, Carlton sat in his Crown Vic and calmly calculated the feasibility of returning to the station in his current condition. Darn it, he still had paperwork to do. He dialed Shawn’s number only for it to go to voicemail again.

Sighing, he called his boss.

“Detective Lassiter. We expected you back half an hour ago. I noticed on our GPS systems you haven’t left the parking lot.”

“The checkout queues were crap,” he snapped, not thinking. He cleared his throat. “I mean. Chief? My heat’s started early.”

There was a pause. “How bad is it, Detective?”

He bristled. “I’m fine. I’m just getting some… early symptoms.”

“How early? Can you drive home safely?” she asked, in a tone that brooked no arguments.

He looked in the mirror. Red bloomed across his ears, nose and cheeks, and despite the cool AC his hair was wet from sweat at the temples. His hands shook. All he could think about was going home and wrapping himself in a nest of blankets and Shawn’s old shirts _._

“I’m fine,” he said, and winced when his voice wavered. “I just can’t get the engine to turn over.”

He’d considered calling his car insurance company, or even a taxi, but hadn’t because that would have required him to open his door and face… _them_.

“Are there any around your car right now?”

“Chief!”

“How many?”

He glanced around, doing a head count. Two more alphas had arrived to mill around the car, expressions hopeful. “Five so far.”

Vick let out something that sounded like a curse. “Dobson is on patrol right now and is the closest officer I have to you.”

“O’Hara?”

“Sherriff’s County Office. Even if she were here, you know policy states only an alpha should respond.”

One of the alphas tapped on his side window and flexed the biceps on his left arm. He looked confused when Carlton shook his head and tried flexing the biceps on his right arm.

“Fine.”

“Do you want me to contact Mr Spencer?”

“Yes. He’s fishing with Henry Spencer.”

“Hang tight, Detective. We’ll get you home.” 

* * *

The boat purred underneath him, the wind rough on his face and the water dark and glistening. Dark storm clouds congealed in the distance, but he didn’t worry about them, since Henry would have checked the forecast before they left. As Santa Cruz Island got smaller and smaller behind them, he thought about Henry’s words.

Could he do this? Too hard of a question. Did he like Lassiter? Everyone seemed to think he did. And everyone seemed to think Lassiter liked him.

He thought about the way the detective frowned, how he stressed over rules and procedures. How he would never vote Democrat and how he shot innocent little squirrels. He thought about how Lassie smiled, his eyes sparkling, his shoulders rolling. How excited he got over explosions and westerns. How he was always there to cut through the stuffing and see the real Shawn.

Yeah, he liked him. Did Lassiter like him?

There was the way they yelled at each other, belittling and setting each other up to fail. Lassie was an omega – he needed to assert his dominance. Not many got to his position, and none got to his position by being a pushover. Shawn loved to push. He must hate him.

A bit of water splashed at his ankles and he shivered. Henry shouted something but the wind took the words and tossed them to the sea.

He thought about how Lassiter refilled the Psych fridge when he thought Shawn or Gus wouldn’t notice. How he’d caught Lassiter sleeping in one of Shawn’s shirts. How he’d returned his bike and how he never, ever pushed him into this relationship. He’d done the opposite – this morning he offered again to step back, that they didn’t have to do this heat together, let alone anything if Shawn wasn’t ready.

Did he deserve Lassiter? Maybe not.

Was he ready to raise a child?

He thought about his friends and family. And Lassie.

At least he wouldn’t be doing it alone.

* * *

By the time Dobson arrived there were six alphas around him.

Two were mock wrestling, much to the amusement of the small crowd of afternoon shoppers. They kept stopping to see if Carlton was looking, and either waved if he was, or shuffled closer if he wasn’t. Trying to yell, "I'm not interested, my car won't start," didn't help. Instead, they gave him a nod, and one annoyingly replied with,

"Sure, we'll wait until you're done deciding."

There was also the bulky twentysomething who’d decided the best place to show off his body was on the hood of the Crown Vic. Carlton had honked his horn at him, waved his gun and badge, but the twentysomething merely blew a kiss in return.

The remaining few, which included a surfer, a trolley collector and a Hillary Clinton lookalike, tried to intersperse showing off their dubious assets with even more dubious poetry. It had been years since one of his heats triggered such an enthusiastic, if dopey, reaction, and where some people might be flattered, he only felt embarrassed. He sighed with relief then when the patrol car swung into the little crowd and Dobson strode out.

Carlton swallowed. Dobson moved with authority, everyone’s eyes on him. For a moment, a flash of lightning haloed him in white. The alpha pointed and with a firm word the wrestlers bowed and retreated. The officer placed his hands on his hips and the twentysomething nodded and obediently rolled off his poor car. Alpha Clinton squared her shoulders and went to step up to Dobson and managed a brief step before retreating. He stood next to the driver’s door and, although Carlton couldn’t see what he did, the remaining alphas and onlookers swiftly dispersed.

Carlton jumped as Dobson tapped on the window, hair glistening with the first drops of rain. Breathing deeply, he unlocked the driver’s door and stepped outside, expecting at any minute another knothead to shout a pickup line. They didn’t. Dobson stayed close by him and helped him into the passenger seat of the patrol car.

Dobson whistled as he got in. “Wow, that’s some stink on you.”

Carlton grimaced. “Spencer’s got a bad sense of smell. I think I’m overcompensating.”

“I’ll say. Give me your keys. I’ll get your shopping.”

“Trunk,” he said, obediently tossing them over.

Carlton breathed, a small part of him wanting to relax, to feel safe. He thought about Dobson, protecting him with ease. Could Shawn do that for him? Not that he needed to! He dragged a hand over his face and cursed his biology.

He’d once told Shawn that he didn’t do things by halves. That for him it’s all or nothing. Shawn had agreed. But. Shawn loved being loved, worshipped, and attended to. There was no downside for him in this agreement. He thought over the past few weeks, looking for some sign Shawn felt the same as he did.

“Still no news from Spencer?”

Carlton jumped and checked his cell, seeing only a few texts from Guster:

_‘Shawn’s phone probably dead. Charger @ office’_

_‘Do you still need snacks?’_

_‘We were going to get them tomorrow’_

_‘He probably hasn’t run’_

He texted back, ‘ _goldfish’_ and his address. He sighed, slumping in his seat.

“Not yet.”

Dobson glanced at him. “Good thing. That hillbilly Hillary Clinton looked a real treat. I’ll turn around now.”

“Go suck an egg.”

"Don't worry, he's probably already waiting for you. You see him, let me know." Dobson shuddered, a curious reaction. Lassiter squinted and Dobson shook the look of fear from his eyes with an easy grin. "I'll be out of your hair soon as you see him."

"Don't tell me you're afraid of Spencer."

Dobson laughed. "Hell yes I am. I've seen that boy shoot."

* * *

Henry was shouting at him and Shawn tried his best not to panic. He was totally Kate Winslet. If anyone was Leo, it would be Gus, and he wasn't here. Even better. He could do this.

“Where’s my toolbox?”

He heaved another bucketful up to Henry. “Toolbox? What does it look like?”

Henry threw the water overboard and lowered the bucket back under. “White. It has my emergency supplies,” he said, looking the life vests. “First aid kit, sealant, a subrella…”

“Subrella? Is that Barbarella’s sister?”

“It’s a reverse umbrella. You stick the folded bit through a hole in the hull and then…” he made a popping motion with his hands. “You took it out, didn’t you.”

Shawn shoved the bucket up. “How was I to know it was important? It said ‘Supplies’! That means boring old man snacks!”

“It would have been less effort for you to leave it in here!”

Shawn ducked as the bucket was thrown at his head. Sighing, he scraped it against the bottom of the boat. He poked his head out to see a muttering Henry stab an impatient finger at his Nokia.

“Can’t we step on it? I don’t want to end up spending six months in a leaky boat.”

Henry frowned at him with his big boring _I know best_ expression. “And fill this up faster? Oh yeah, great idea son.” He pulled on the throttle and Shawn yelped as the water gushed in around his ankles, the boat filling like a cup being dragged through sand. He groaned and Henry reduced the speed. The leak slowed back to a trickle.

“Fine,” he groaned. "We’re going only as fast as we can empty it.”

"This is all your fault. You must have hit some rocks. Or coral!"

"Maybe a shark bit it," he sniped.

“Give me your phone.”

Shawn froze, which caused him to lose his balance and land his ass in the growing puddle. “These were new jeans!” he moaned. “And no, you can’t.”

Henry turned red. “What do you mean no, Shawn? My phone's dead!”

“I mean, I played snake in good faith of being able to reach a charger sometime later today.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all for now, folks! I hope you've enjoyed the ride. I've got a sequel in the works; if there's something you'd like to see in it, I'd love to hear from you. I can't promise anything, of course, but it all adds fuel to the creative train.
> 
> Also, thanks for sticking while I had a wee procrastination panic. I wanted to do the best I could while editing this, but in that vein of thought came a surprise analysis paralysis. So what happened? Ya'll shrugged and started commenting on my old shassie fics. I just 😊 cheers you little rippers xoxo

Carlton tried not to stare at Dobson as they drove. To keep things less awkward he spoke only to give directions. It seemed to work. The alpha's driving was professional, his face relaxed and upbeat. He didn’t seem too weirded out by the ‘escorting horny superior’ schtick. Carlton drummed his hands on his lap, trying to ignore the fire kindling in his nether regions. For distraction, he wondered what his report would say and so began drafting one for Dobson in his head:

_Carlton Lassiter (omega) let himself be trapped in own car in busy lot. Disturbed peace in attracting alphas to scene. Attracted alphas were pathetic and officer on call (Dobson) dispersed alphas with ease. Heat obviously unsupressed: Officer offered pharmaceuticals to which omega declined. Officer drove Lassiter home: no incident. As per regulation re unsupressed heat, officer stayed until omega’s partner, Shawn Spencer (alpha), appeared. Partner did not appear. Partner last seen sailing joyously towards Mexican Gulf._

_Result: Heat suppressants accepted. Officer departed._

_Follow-up Needed: Extract Lassiter’s car from parking lot. Return to owner or tow to junkyard. Nominate Carlton Lassiter for least eligible omega in Greater Santa Barbara Region._

Carlton scrubbed a weary hand over his face. Head draft or not, that was a terrible report. Ambiguous – just the sort of thing that would have it thrown out of court. No locations… it didn’t even have timestamps! What time was it? He glared at his dash and was startled to see they were parked outside his home, Dobson already out of the patrol car and retrieving his shopping from the boot.

Once inside, he shook rainwater from his coat, squashed the strange impulse to offer Dobson coffee, and instead indulged his impulse to nest. Leaving Dobson to check the perimeter, he began to set up the bedroom. Clean pillowcase on his new pillow. He squished it again with one finger, enjoying the way it waited a moment to spring back. The new fluffy yellow towel he folded next to the bed; atop this he piled his threadbare washcloths and an empty dish for water.

Now where was the -? Ah, lubricant, just in case. He popped the cap and placed a little of the strawberry-scented slick on the inside of his arm – a skin test to ensure he wouldn’t react. From the kitchen he filled half a dozen water bottles and lugged over fresh fruit to pile beside his bed. Their bed.

He swallowed. Annoying, infuriating, Shawn. Shawn. Shawn. He glanced at his bathroom, wondering if he’d have time to shower before Shawn got back. Should he shower? Shawn would like his scent. “Don’t wash,” once instructed Napoleon to his Josephine. “I’ll be back in a few weeks.” But he spared a thought for Dobson, who’d already commented on his scent. He sniffed and grimaced. He should shower. But could he shower with a strange alpha in his house?

“Would you like some coffee?” called Dobson.

Although momentarily spooked, he definitely did not jump. Slinking towards the kitchen, he peeked his head around the corner to observe the officer already taking advantage of his supplies. Typical alpha. Swallowing down a growl, he instead strode into the kitchen as the alpha opened and closed several cupboards, clearly looking for something.

He managed to bite out a, “Coffee cups are –” Only to have Dobson turn suddenly and bump into him. The alpha inhaled sharply, and Carlton’s stomach flipped as he watched the man’s pupils dilate. Instead of pulling back, he found himself frozen. He whined.

Dobson was the one to step back and put a respectable distance between them. Ashamed, all he could do was lower his gaze respectfully.

“No, Detective,” said Dobson. “Carlton. I’m flattered, but no.”

“Wasn't asking you to,” he bristled. Or was he? He flicked his eyes critically over Dobson’s shoulders and strong arms. For a moment, he wished he hadn’t met Shawn. Shawn made things complicated. But he had, and for better or worse, from nearly the moment they met, he couldn’t quit him. Emotionally, physically, spiritually. His. Like a virus, a carcinoma, or...

“Okay,” replied the officer, accepting his answer easily. “Do you want to sit down?”

He narrowed his eyes and sat down. “I’m not an invalid.”

Dobson sighed. “You’re my commanding officer.” Carlton watched as the alpha managed to locate his least favorite mugs. He may not be psychic, but Shawn always knew which were his best mugs. “But I would turn down anyone in a situation like this. Not only because it’s my job.” The water darkened as the brewing coffee made the air fragrant. Tense shoulders seemed to relax. Shawn had relaxed shoulders, so nice, so casual. His Shawn, indelibly his. “I’m only telling you this because... Please, don’t tell anyone yet. I’m taking the sergeant’s exam later this year.”

He blinked at his suddenly full coffee mug. Urgh. He hated this mug. It had squirrels on it: a joke gift from last year’s Secret Santa. The sides were rough and plasticky and coffee tasted burnt from it. He took a sip anyway. Not sweet enough. Ooh, milk. When did Dobson pour the milk into it? He noticed then Dobson had stopped talking and tried pulling back to the last thing he heard. He wondered briefly if his haphazard heat-brain was as yet as chaotic as Shawn's usually was. Words. Right. 

“You don’t want me telling people you’re taking the exam?”

Dobson spluttered. “What? No! Weren’t you listening?”

“Of course I was,” he snapped. He glared at Dobson, looking for clues. Shawn would know. 

“I’m sorry, I guess.” Dobson tapped his mug, which had Reagan’s face on it. “I thought you’d be… conservative about it. Don’t ask, don’t tell, at the very least.”

Something lit up in his mind. Still, he tried to keep his words broad, so they could be taken as a non-sequitur if he was wrong. “They say queer marriages are going to happen soon.”

Dobson grinned. “When they do, you’ll be the first to be invited. Mav’s great, but I think you’ll hate him. He’s a bit like your Spencer.”

His heart thudded at the reminder of Shawn. “Right all the time?”

“Oh, it’s _so_ infuriating!”

Carlton smiled, aware it came out a bit shaky. He never had completely understood camaraderie, finding it easier to shade his responses with anger and frustrations. Still, he felt he owed it to the man to try. If at least for the shared experience of being a queer cop.

He laid what he hoped was a camaraderie-inducing hand on his kitchen table. “You ever put the moves on my alpha and I will find you, hang you up and use you as my shooting target.” He drained his coffee and slammed it to the table, startling a suddenly pale Dobson. He shrugged. Maybe he didn’t like the coffee. “I’m taking a shower. Shout if you have his ETA.”

* * *

Henry let out a whoop from above deck as the radio finally crackled to life. Shawn lugged a half-full bucket up with him as he scrambled to the deck and threw its contents overboard. This totally ruined Overboard for him, for at _least_ another month. Man, he wished he was Annie Stayton. He’d totally have servants doing this for him.

Shaking water from his hair, he crowded into the cabin and shoved Henry aside so he could hear the responding faint crackle over the pouring rain.

“…can do that, Mr Henry Spencer.” The operator was nasally but clear. Her voice hesitated for a moment. “Is Shawn Spencer with you?”

Henry glared his _what did you do_ face. Shawn replied with a shrug. He didn’t recognize the voice.

“I’m here.”

Henry rolled his eyes and pushed a button. Oh. “I’m here,” he repeated, response now being transmitted.

“We can get a boat to you in…” The radio crackled for a moment. “I’ll get my supervisor, see if I can speed that up.” There was some muffled talking over the other end and he strained to hear any of it.

He tilted his head and squinted – dismally aware Henry was doing the same thing. His first (terrified) thought had been to wonder if something had happened to Gus – emergency contact after all. But that didn’t sit right: the operator had sounded relieved, slightly bored… not sympathetic. Oh. He snapped his neck around to look at Henry, who’d seemingly come to the same conclusion. He reached for the transmission button, only to have his hand slapped away.

“Lassiter can wait! I’ll want you to make sure they plug the leak properly!”

“Like hell he’s waiting.” He pushed the button. “We’re sinking fast!”

“Sir?” came the reply.

He wordlessly shushed Henry. “Oh papa," he cried, putting a little Southern Belle into his inflection, "where are the life jackets? Why didn’t you let me learn how to swim!”

“Calm down, Mr Spencer. We’ll work something out.”

* * *

Freshly showered, Carlton’s stomach dropped as he checked his messages, or rather the lack of them. He pulled on one of Shawn’s shirts, the flannel catching slightly on his damp skin, and drew in a shaking breath. He would come. Spencer always kept his word, no matter how strange his word may be. He shook his head, remembering the case where _the dinosaur did it._ No, he couldn’t have got it this badly wrong.

Clothed and smelling less like a whorehouse, he checked his messages again. Nothing. He nodded at Dobson, who was currently returning from the front door.

"Another one?"

The blond head shook. "Another two. You're really attracting some winners today. One was trying the drainpipe."

He grimaced and continued pottering about, trying not to wrinkle his nose at the alpha’s scent. While it was slight – not nearly as strong as it would be if he were… ‘helping’ – the scent did a passable job in deterring most of the hopeful alphas from his home. But it wasn’t _his_ alpha’s scent.

He checked his messages again as he began coiling soft blankets and pillows around his bedroom. In the middle of wondering where a stuffed pineapple had come from, his cell finally rang.

He was not disappointed to see O’Hara’s name on the caller ID. Really, he wasn’t, so why did his voice come out all… shaky?

“Juliet?”

There was a beat before she responded. “...Carlton. Are you okay?”

“Dandy,” he bit, wondering why he called her Juliet. He shook it off as unimportant.

“I’m so sorry,” she began. He looked down to see a seam of the stuffed pineapple had ripped in his hand. “I swear I only just got word. He should be...”

He… what? O’Hara was still talking – what was she saying? He scrambled to make sense of the sounds on the other side of the call, but between the driving rain and a fierce wind outside, it was hard to focus. “…Carlton? You there?” She paused, and he tried to make his mouth work. “Would you like me to go over that again?”

A ‘yes’ died on his tongue. That the beating sound of wind against his windows was far too uniform to be wind.

“Helicopter?” he managed, because of course that was easier to say than 'yes'. Stumbling out into the kitchen he briefly locked eyes with a wide-eyed Dobson. He noticed the police radio in the alpha’s hand and pushed past to the front door.

“Yes,” confirmed Juliet.

He hung up and ran outside.

At first, he couldn’t see anything. Blinking against a maelstrom of darkness and sound, he winced as the wind whipped cruelly across his face, across his quiet neighborhood. He was aware of car alarms shrieking, of the thud thud thud of a propeller blade. Then two bright lights ignited the rain in miniature sunbursts. He shivered, the wind and rain icy against his feverish skin and he stared and stared until his eyes adjusted.

Suddenly, the cold didn’t bother him. Nor did the wet scuff of rain-washed concrete under his feet, or the sharp cut of wind against his chapped lips. A figure was being lowered from a helicopter, and who else could make this entrance but Shawn? Four hours late, having ignored his messages, his calls, his friends, and here he was... scrambling to the ground, running towards him. Warm, safe tight. A cold cheek pressed against his neck. He drooped against Shawn, who was smelling of the sea, of fish and himself, and he was guiding him inside as persistently as the ocean tide. His heart soared to find he was no longer in the shallows, in the uncertain puddles of rejection, and instead was falling deep into his alpha's arms.

“There’s glass,” he heard Shawn say a moment before picking him up. Bare feet, right. Bemused, he caught the pained face Shawn pulled as he registered how heavy he was.

“Not as easy as it looks in the movies?” he teased.

Shawn’s normally styled hair was wet and slicked back; rain fell onto his eyelashes. Clearly noticing the attention, the alpha smiled, and for a moment it looked anything but confident. Carlton grinned. Shawn blinked, eyes now wide and guileless. “Movies? What are movies?”

"No reference to..." He looked at Shawn's soaked face and took a wild guess. "Overboard?"

Shawn gasped. "I _knew_ I was Annie..."

They staggered forward and he clung on awkwardly, distracted by a rip in Shawn’s shirt. Soon Shawn lowered him across the threshold and it took all of Carlton’s self-control to not push him against the door and climb him. He frowned at Shawn’s waterlogged shoes and jeans, which while usually baggy were now flecked with mud and stuck to his legs. How was he going to get these off?

“Whoa, hang on,” Shawn was saying, and Carlton blinked. His heat-fogged head cleared as he realized Shawn was pushing his hands away from his fly. Couldn't Shawn smell him, how ready he was for him, how wet and warm and... “Hey Lassie.” A hand cupped his face. “Let’s start with this.” And leaned in for a kiss.

He whined against the first touch of those cold lips, because he wanted more, he wanted everything, so why was Shawn taking it slow? His few working synapses fired. Clearly, he was remaining unaffected due to his reduced scenting abilities. He lowered his head, offering his neck.

And pulled back, as the sound of a door rattling made them both jump. He turned to locate the source – which was difficult with the way Shawn had frozen – and spotted Dobson. But Dobson was no longer the alpha who, with just his presence, dominated the parking lot crowd. No, he was shuffling awkwardly, back bowed, his hands up in genuine supplication.

The effect was instant. Shawn’s easy, gentle smile dropped and without it his face looked cold and hard. Dangerous. Those usually warm eyes slit into glass and he felt an animalistic growl rumble against his chest. _Rut._

“Good boy Shawn,” he heard himself saying, the words rolling off his tongue without thought. “So good for me. You’ve got me.”

Frozen arms slid off him, positioning him behind. He’d never seen Shawn’s back so straight, not when he was talking down suspects, not when he held a gun, not when he argued. Dominance looked good on him, but logic dictated this was hardly the time.

He leaned in close to murmur with what he hoped was a reassuring tone. “He’s leaving now.”

Shawn didn’t blink. To Dobson, Carlton swallowed past the mental fugues of heat, became Detective Lassiter, and commanded, “Officer, go out the back.”

Shawn stepped forward, his eyes flicking around the room. He’d seen the fake psychic do something similar countless times, but this time Shawn didn’t grin, flap about, or put on a silly voice. This time, the alpha stepped towards the HiFi system, the nearest place he’d hidden a gun.

“Won’t open, sir,” replied Dobson, his voice quiet and submissive. "It's stuck, I checked it... but now it's stuck..."

He chanced a quick look over. Oh for crying out loud. Dobson seemed to have forgotten how the door worked and was pulling instead of pushing.

“Push! Did you lock it? Latch down, jerk up,” he grit, and maneouvered between Shawn and the HiFi. Shawn cocked his head and veered left, graceful as if they were simply doing a dance.

He heard Dobson scrabbling ineffectually the back door again, and quickly caught Shawn’s hand in his own before it could dig under the couch.

“I need you Shawn. Just you,” he soothed. To Dobson he yelled, “Get your head together. Push!”

Shawn squeezed his hand, growling, but still. The door rattled and shook in its frame, but otherwise remained jammed.

“He’s running Shawn. He’s running. You’ve won. So brave.” He felt a fresh wave of slick run down his legs. “Dammit Spencer,” he snapped. “Get your ass into the bedroom. I need you undressed. _Now!”_

 _That_ got Shawn's attention. The alpha whined and crowded into his space, nostrils flaring. He pulled on Shawn’s hand, taking a few steps away from the entrance, and was only partly surprised when the alpha followed. Dobson dashed past; Carlton was pleased when Shawn only growled in triumph at the fleeing alpha. The front door slammed, and Carlton found himself held against a wall.

“Carlton,” growled Shawn, pulling his face down until he could mouth against his neck. Shawn’s lips were cold, but Carlton was running hot; they warmed quickly as he bit and scented him. A clothed erection ground against his leg, and as lovely as it was to finally feel it against him, the roughness of wet denim made him wince. He scrabbled at Shawn’s flies, but the jeans were stuck tight to clammy skin.

“Bathroom,” he gasped, thinking of his med kid. He slipped out from Shawn’s hold and managed to locate the trauma shears only a split second before he was being kissed again. He slipped a little then, not physically, but mentally – forgetting everything but the sensation of tongue. Trying to get closer, he dragged his hands under a cold, wet shirt, over an equally cold, wet back and breathed in salt.

Cursing, he reached for the shower knob and sent a quick prayer to angels he no longer believed in: _I better not have used all the hot water_.

He stripped off his own clothes before shoving them both under a beautifully warm flow. Rather than thinking them, he heard himself narrate his actions to Shawn: “Gonna get you warm,” he said, rubbing his hands over now-shivering flesh. “I need to cut your clothes off,” he continued, the clinging jeans falling in strips to the shower floor. “Stand here, you idiot,” he soothed with a kiss.

Shawn whined as his erection sprang free. Carlton swallowed and dragged his eyes to meet Shawn’s. His eyes were still dark, pupils blown, but there was a light in them that hadn't been there before. He kissed him, pleased.

A little manhandling latter, he managed to get them both partially dried before Shawn lost patience and picked him up again, this time in a fireman carry, to relocate him onto the bed. He bounced, legs parting, and shivered in delight at the fluffy comforter being thrown over him. He heard Shawn growl again and gasped as a hot wet mouth dragged over his chest. Shawn sucked and licked, nibbled and moaned, drifting further and further south and Carlton did his best to not buck too hard. Sure fingers kneaded his thighs, teased at his entrance and slipped inside. Their arousal hung heavy in the air; he tried to breathe through it, to not lose himself too much to the heat fugue.

Shawn did something clever with his fingers, twisting and pressing against his walls, and he moaned. Simultaneously, a tongue lapped as if consuming a melting icecream. Shawn was so good on his knees. So, so good. He could tie him there, keep him by his bed, sit on his face, bite him, mark him, excite him, calm him. Shawn hummed against him and a hand slipped into his own. Their fingers interwove. Torn between pleasure and wanting more, he dug his free hand into wet hair and pulled.

He tenderly kissed away a whine and tasted himself on Shawn’s lips. This was it. He turned over until he was on all fours. Shawn mounted him in an instant, peppering kisses over his hips, his back, and his shoulder blades. A dull pressure against his entrance, then Shawn was inside.

“We fit so good," observed Shawn, uncharacteristically patient.

“Now,” he agreed, begged, unsure what he needed.

Shawn’s hands slid to rest on his abdomen. His stubble rubbed over his shoulder. A dry kiss soothing the burn. Finally, he thrust slowly, dragging like waves against a beach. Once hilted, he stopped. "You’ll be so good, Carlton.” Shawn’s voice sounded awed but clear, and he wondered if that meant Shawn’s rut was clearing too. He called him Carlton, and he only did that if he wanted something - usually him.

Then Shawn thrust again and he lost all thought. “The best.” The angle changed and stars burst behind his closed eyes. He continued to babble, moving faster, the base of his cock swelling, feeling heavy and thick inside him. Thrusting, grinding. Perfect, so perfect. “I’ll take you and give and give until you can’t take anymore. Get you round and full, take you deep, hold your hand, oh…”

Begged as Shawn pushed, knowing the knot would catch and they’d be locked together. Shawn's cock was twitching inside him, pulsing, and _oh_. A gentle hand stroked against his abdomen, anchoring him as his orgasm wrecked through him.

They woke at least twice more throughout that stormy night. Once to Carlton crawling onto Shawn’s lap, pinning his wrists to the pillow as he took what he needed from him. Another to Shawn grinding, hardening, still locked inside from their previous round. Always they held each other so tight as if to promise to never let go.

The morning broke slowly over Santa Barbara. Golden beams poked out from scattered, steel-grey clouds and glittered across rain-drenched rooves. Warm and content, Shawn woke to a rumbling stomach and the buzz of a doorbell. He looked down at the mess of greying hair and a sleep-slack face. With a soft kiss to a relaxed forehead, he slipped from a clinging Lassie, hopped over soiled towels, nearly trod on a half-eaten banana, and padded out, stretching as he went.

He opened the door naked, not caring who saw him like this. The Blueberry sped away and he gave it a cheerful wave. On the steps were fastidiously stacked bags of red vines, goldfish, soda. Nestled inside an overnight duffle were his towel from home, a change of clothes, and toiletries. He sniffed, recognizing something greasy and savory. With a grin, he fished out a piping hot box of quatro queso dos fritos, shoving one of the cheesy, deep fried potato balls into his mouth.

Instead of hauling everyhing in at once and risking dropping something, he went back for a second trip, pleased to find his brain working again. Lassie’s heat still hung cloyingly in the air – a strong scent even for him, but he pushed aside the rising sense of lust. "We'll get back to that soon," he told his dick. Lassie needed food, after all.

The hair on the back of his neck prickled. Alert, he registered the sound of feet carpet, of Lassie’s reflection in the television, and so didn’t move quick enough to avoid Lassie tackling him to the floor.

He yelped. Then grinned. Lassie straddling him was sexy.

“Not leaving me,” growled Lassie.

Oh no. Gut twisting, he took in Lassiter's appearance. His hair was stuck up in different directions, his eyes narrow and his forehead pinched. Worried, angry, sad Lassie. He was breathing through his mouth too - trying to keep a clear head? Well, Lassie clearly wasn't on top detecting form today. He waved an explanatory hand towards the delicious swag.

“Food,” he began, but choked when a firm hand squeezed around his balls.

“You think you can give me what I want, and leave?”

“Think about it, Lassie,” he urged, somewhat desperately, peering up into those baby blues. “That doesn’t make any sense. Why would I leave? Look – breakfast!” He pointed towards the kitchen, where the food waited. Lassiter didn’t look. He tried thrusting upwards to distract him. "Look, penis."

The hand left his balls and blue eyes dipped. He dismounted, putting distance between them and drawing his knees to his chest. “I won't stop you.”

“I’m not going!”

Lassie barely blinked at his stubborness. “You’ve been more than generous. You want to go? I’m not stopping you!”

Swallowing against the rising hurt, Shawn closed the distance between them. He rolled a resisting Lassie until he was pressing his shoulders against the worn carpet.

“You think I’m not committing to this? To you?”

“Why would I! Why would you!”

He cupped a clenching jaw, reading the heatdrunk anger in Lassie’s blue eyes. His voice when it came out was careful. “Do you like me?”

Blue eyes widened and tears threatened to spill. “I – I…” Lassie began, his throat working. Shawn smiled and stood, somewhat shakily, careful to not step on him. He offered his hand. Lassie stared at it, suspicion lining his face, but took it after a few moments.

Mind made up, Shawn hummed and bounced towards the kitchen. He liked this kitchen, but it could use more colour. Yellow, green, maybe even a little cornflower. "You like cornflower, right?"

Lassie seemed to hesistate. "Like... Val Jr?"

"No, I mean," he said and stopped. He felt sure, surer than he'd been about anything for a while. Okay. He could do direct. Big boy Shawn time. He rested his shaking hand against the coffee machine. “Y’know how we said we could still be friends?”

He heard Lassiter pause behind him. “Yes,” came the slow answer.

“Friends that cuddled?”

“I… remember agreeing to that.”

“Friends that kissed?”

“What’s this about?” Carlton was staring at him now, wet blue eyes wiggling between rage and bewilderment. Shawn unzipped the front pocket of his overnight bag and dug around the different textures until he felt cardboard, then crinkly plastic, and finally Cheerios. He fell to one knee.

“Friends that marry?”

Lassiter stared at Shawn’s hand. He didn’t look pleased. “Is that a decoder ring from a cereal box?”

Shawn swallowed, his world lurching to a stop. “You know how coveted this is? Gus once—”

"No."

"I. I want to. We."

“Not yet. Ask me again in a few months.”

“Two months?”

Lassiter tilted his head from side to side. Either he was considering the idea or he had water in his ears. “Three.”

“Good. Oh, good.” The world spun again and he grinned. Leaping up, he wrapped around an equally naked Lassie to pillow his head on a strong shoulder. He squeezed Lassie's bum. Excellent handful. His stomach growled, sidetracking him for a moment. “Are we… friends that feed each other breakfast?”

Lassiter pulled away and Shawn followed him to the bedroom, worried by the silence. Lassie slipped under a nest of overly soft cloud blankets and hunkered down to a downy pillow. He cocked his head at him, worrying over his memories for what he'd done wrong, only for the detective to break character and grin.

“Coffee. Two sugars, extra cream. Thanks love.”

He gasped. “Cheeky!”

“You better make it right though.” Blue eyes narrowed in warning but the effect was ruined by his smile. 

“I can make the most adequate of coffees,” he promised.

“Perfect,” Carlton hummed, looking genuinely happy with the concept, and kissed him slowly, tenderly. When they parted, Shawn was struck by how well they fit together. “Now. Get me that coffee.”

He thought back on their first date, of Lassiter deciding him adequate. Shawn grinned, now knowing it as the best compliment he’d ever received.

He shot Carlton a satisfied smirk, before affecting a concerned expression, widening his eyes as if a thought had just occurred to him. “I _can_ make the most adequate of coffees, but I won't."

Lassie frowned, suspicion lining his handsome face.

"Is this the new pillow by the way? It's even more amazing than I thought it would be. The yellow towel is nice."

"Soft," agreed Lassie. "Do you want a blowjob before you make me coffee? Because I can do that Spencer, if you're happy with teeth."

Shawn poked at Lassie's frown line and tutted. "Coffee? In your condition?” He shook his head and rubbed a suddenly furious Lassie on the belly. “Don’t worry, I’ll bring you water and a deep-fried potato. I'm so good to you!”

Carlton made to grab him and he danced out of the way. “Dammit—!”

“Eating for two, now, Lassie!”

“Spencer!”

He ran into the kitchen, Lassie hot on his heels. Instead of pinning him to the table, Carlton surprised him with a kiss: warm, annoyed and deep. He kissed back, eager to wait for whatever happened next.


End file.
